Blindfold
by Homicide-Inside
Summary: Craig hates Tweek, bullies him everyday and can't wait to have him gone for good. But even the hardest of hearts have a soft side for everybody. When will Craig find his for the Spaz? He wouldn’t know, and he wouldn’t care. CrEek. In-Progress. Rated T.
1. Consuming Thoughts that Kill Me

**Blindfold**

**Genre: **Romance/Violence  
**Rating: T**  
**Pairing(s): **Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak  
**Warnings: **language, violence, slash

**Disclaimers: **I do not own South Park and everyone in it. I am not that imaginative, and I don't have enough nerve to use Jesus as a character. (Yes, I'm catholic.) These come from the fucked up minds of Trey Parker and Matt Stone. I also do not own that 'Teen Pop Sensation' that is Hannah Montana that is only mentioned once, so you should not worry. She is from Disney and I hold no hatred towards her, but since this story is to be narrated by Craig, he hates her. I also do not own the planets in our solar system. I have a phobia of night skies (Unless there are buildings or tall trees around me, that's fine) and the sea at night. It fucking kills me. These, however, are made by God.

**Summary:** There are a lot of things Craig hates, but none could compare to his hatred towards Tweek. He bullies him everyday and can't wait to have him gone for good. But even the hardest of hearts have a soft side for everybody. When will Craig find his for the Spaz? He wouldn't know, and he wouldn't care.

**Author's Notes: **Never thought you'd see a fic with Craig hating Tweek, did you? I'm sure I haven't! But little Tweekie lets him bully him. Want to know why? You'll see! Want to know why Craig hates Tweek? You'll see! It's stated in the first chapter, but the _real_ reason, as he will find out, will be said in later chapters. One clue: The title. Go on and speculate! I still have no clue as to how to end this though. Will it become a CrEek? Will it won't? Well then, we'll all just have to wait. Maybe suggest some things too, will you? And don't forget to **READ AND REVIEW**, although I'm not forcing you to. Just encouraging. It will be greatly appreciated. This is my first South Park fanfiction, so if it isn't good, I apologize. This is a multi-chapter fic, by the way, but of course I think I've implicated that. See end notes for **Further Author's Notes.**

* * *

**Chapter One: Consuming Thoughts that Kill Me**

There are countless of things that I really hate. One of them is the whole idea of _girls_. Stereotypically speaking. Sure, some of them are hot and really dig me. I enjoy flirting as much as Clyde and Kenny do. It's the population of complete sluts who gossip non-stop and are mall-obsessed that tick me off. Especially "The List" issue 7 years ago in Fourth Grade. I mean—putting Clyde on top just to date him for free shoes? Bullshit.

And there's Wendy: the epitome of bitches. She eventually spilled the real list to Stan. Turns out I was the one on the top and Clyde was part of the bottom five. Didn't scar my ego, though Clyde's did. He stopped talking to me after that, but got over it the following week.

Another thing I hate is cake. It's like bread you slapped whipped cream, fruits and sugar on. That's disgusting. I especially hate cheesecakes. The cheddar cheese mom buys from the grocery store is bad enough as it is.

And don't get me started on Hannah Montana.

However, when you put all the things I hate together, it wouldn't compare to my abhorrence, my malevolence, my disdain to that one person I gag upon hearing his name.

_Tweek Tweak._

It's like my hatred to all else is Pluto, and my loathe to him is Jupiter.

Well, with all that spazzing and twitching how could he _not _annoy you? And he shakes all the time like he's on crack, for god's sake! His paranoia drives me crazy! And so I bully him a lot—verbally and physically. And if I know any better, I'd say people are having a mental countdown of when I'd go stark raving mad and just kill him off.

I'm not that stupid. I'm still young enough for my parents to ground me for eternity.

All good things must wait.

Having said that, I should clarify: no, I have no problem with killing the spaz. The sooner he's gone, the happier my days will be. If only he was this little vulnerable worm so I could just squish it and grind its insides on the coarse concrete. I would die the happiest person in the world. Because the worst thing that has ever happened in my shitloaded life is meeting him.

And thinking of him is the worst way to start the morning especially when I'm nowhere near to being a morning person.

I slam my fist against some kid's locker—I need something to get his fucking name out of my head.

"Goddamnit!" I yell in the hallway as I stomp towards my locker. Oh yeah, like _that_ would help.

And like a blessing from above, I find Clyde and Token standing at the area of my locker.

"Sleeping Beauty didn't like her prince?" Clyde asks with a wide grin.

I snort, fussing with the combination lock. "If that prince your talking about is that fucktard, I would have pranced around with flowers in my hair, his chopped up body in a basket." I furiously swing open my locker and grab my books. Fortunately, that thought calms me—the idea of chopping him up to bite size pieces. _Finally_, I now know how to murder him.

"Ew, man, that's sick." Token comments. A smirk graces my lips and I roll my eyes. Please, as if he _didn't_ like Spaz. "Offer something better and crazier, because that is as sick as it can get and I love it."

"Yeah, I'm sure you're on top of the world," he says grinning.

"Not yet, I'm not," I say, leaning my back to the lockers. A group of girls giggle, glancing at us from time to time. I look at Clyde checking them out and I playfully punch his arm.

Clyde is a ladies man—and by ladies man, I mean he's their fucking sex machine. Besides Kenny, but no one can beat Kenny. He went out with all the girls in our batch and isn't afraid of going for us guys next. Clyde's straight and hasn't been with all the girls, but he's getting there. He won't let some kiddy list get to him—we're in eleventh grade now.

But what I hate in Clyde is that he doesn't fail to inform me explicitly of his night escapade with some whore. Like I would want to know what she screams or how amazing she is at giving blowjobs or how their fuck differs from the fuck some time ago or all the other shit. Even Kenny doesn't do that. But I'm pretty sure he enjoys it when he hears such story.

And so Clyde isn't around to hang out often. Sometimes it's just Token and I. But Token usually does his own thing—he wouldn't say what exactly. I've grown with that thinking of him: aloof, indifferent and comments on everything everybody does. Must have gotten the Rich Kid bug. Although he doesn't act all High and Mighty with his money, but he's pretty much stingy with it. He wouldn't even let me loan one dollar for a Strawberry Smoothie!

So most of the time, I'm on my own. I don't mind, though. I always find something to do. And I'm thankful for that. Because every time I'm alone, I think. I think about things that matter and things that don't. And usually, it all ends up in thinking about…Spaz. Ugh, I could just vomit now.

"Hey, babe," Clyde addressed to the girl currently gazing at him. She flips her hair to show off her bare shoulders. (She's wearing an off-shoulder top that looks disgusting.) "Hey, Clyde."

"Call me!" He says to her, winking. She giggles.

"Seriously, Clyde, you just had a fuck 2 nights ago." Token tells him with a disapproving look.

"And I'm not even breaking a sweat!" He chimes.

"Jesus Christ," I mumble, obviously amused at my cheerful friend.

"Goddamnit, Kenny!" I hear Stan yell somewhere at my left. I turn to look and watch their little show.

"Geez, Kenny, when you said you'd go after guys, you really meant it!" Kyle laughs.

Stan and those guys have kept a strong bond. I'm not sure how they met, and I think I don't care much but they're really curious—tolerancewise. Day after day, they would throw insults at each other, break into a Jew-VS-Fatass fight, and get each other in trouble and still they choose to hang out with each other. I just don't get it. And I don't plan to—I hate their group for countless of reasons. I think they got that message way back with the Pan Flute uproar.

"Kyle, he just grabbed my ass!" Stan screams at his friend who, now, is throwing hysterics.

"You're such a fag, Stan." Cartman comments, closing his locker door.

"Oh, and Ken isn't?!"

"Relax, babe!" Kenny laughs, slapping Stan's back.

"_Kenny_!"

Stan's the pussy in the group and quite a boring character. I bet Wendy went out with him back in elementary because he was a Football Jock. He still is now, but ever since Kenny had sex with her and said he was 10 times a better fucker than Stan, his world crashed and he dumped her. I think Wendy just tossed her hair and walked away without a care. I would say I feel sorry for Stan but—you guessed it!—I don't. So boo-hoo his messed up love life.

I don't know what to say about Kyle besides the obvious facts: he's a Jew, he's got cool hair now, and he's turned into a smart ass. You know that stage in life when you begin to feel conscious of your appearance? It was in Seventh Grade: when Kyle heard the pictorial for the yearbook will be some day the following week, he styled his hair like crazy. When he came to school the next day, he wasn't wearing his hat and he was beaming. His hair wasn't like some sick broccoli anymore—I can't even describe how it looked like. All I can say is that it was definitely better. And with the smart ass thing—his bitch mom hates him going out to parties or coming home late unless school-related or watching TV and fun crap. She'd rather he does his homework and, if he doesn't, read all his school books in advance. If he doesn't turn out Valedictorian, I don't know _what_ his mom will do. He's missing out on a lot and that's just sad for him.

Cartman…is Cartman. Now fatter and more idiotic as ever. I hate him the most.

Kenny—ah, you know how Kenny is from my compare and contrast with him and Clyde. He doesn't hide his face anymore—I don't know why he used to, seeing that he's pretty hot. He's such a slut though, but that isn't much a surprise. Hot guys must make the most of their reputation—even I have a rep. Kicking Spaz's ass. Fuck, here we go again.

"Look at _that_, Clyde! Your hero's really going over the edge!" I tell him as I snicker. I had to say something to _not_ think of that freak.

"He's insane." Token says.

"He's amazing!" Clyde exclaims. I laugh harder.

But all happiness drains away as a certain blond catches my eye. I tighten my fist and I scowl. He's fucking _there_. Carefully opening his locker door and taking out his morning books.

"Hey, Craig it's—oh," Token cuts himself off of whatever he was going to tell me.

Even Stan's group stares at him, then glance at me and I _know _they're giving themselves guesses of what I would do to the freak.

He closes his door, brushes his thumb down the numbers of his lock, drinks from his thermos then, hugging his books and papers, walks towards my direction. I smirk and stretch my leg forward at the right time and he trips, his books and papers flying everywhere and his face flat on the floor.

"That's the closest you can get to making out, klutz! Suck off the floor clean, fucktard!" I exclaim. Laughter resonates the hallway. He slowly rises to his knees and shakes violently, gathering his materials here and there.

I watch him and scowl again. He's taking too long. "Get out of my sight, spaz!"

He squeaks and hurries off, books and papers close to his chest. I smile in triumph. That's how it's like all the time. There were better mornings—when I engage in a fist fight. Of course it wouldn't be much of a fight if I'm the only one playing. He lets me hurt him—what a freak! But that's what makes me feel so good. Because he's a weak little freak constantly having to go to the school clinic which makes me see less of him. I'm not like the other guys who approach their victims to knock their head off, no.

Spaz asks for it. I whole-heartedly give it to him.

The school bell rings and everyone scurries off to their classes. And before I take off, I hear Stan mumbling: "Man, what a jerk."

He really is a fag.

**~.::.~**

To start off, I've hated Spaz ever since the fight in Fourth grade. He almost fucking _destroyed_ my left eye and he tackled me back at the hospital when _clearly_ any more fighting would result to something worse. He's such an idiot. And when I succeeded pinning him down to clobber him, a nurse comes in and fucking _screams_ at me like I started the whole thing! I accused spaz, the bitch didn't believe me and stabbed me with a sedative!

I hated him after that. But that hate grew every time I laid eyes on his pathetic scrawny body, his shit excuse of hair, and his fucking spasms. And what is the _deal_ about his lamely buttoned shirts? Is he trying to turn girls _on_? He's nothing _close_ to attractive—maybe if I'm nice enough I'd give him a huge frikkin mirror and yell everything that's wrong with him. Plus his coffee intake. He's parents are idiots for thinking that'd help him out. Maybe I should raid his house when they're eating dinner and tell them to get their brains checked because obviously they're the cause of their son's misery.

Hm…I could do that. I'll go ask Token if I should. Oh, to hell with Token—he doesn't care what I do to the freak. And Clyde would rather that I go shower punches on the guy.

"Hey, Craig," Token says after putting his books back in his locker. Another boring day done to make way for another.

"Yeah?" I answer, tugging the side of my blue hat. It's become my trademark, besides my finger flipping, ever since I started wearing it, and since it isn't stretchable like Stan's or Cartman's and Kyle just happened to fix his hair up (or should I say down?) so his hat still fits him perfectly, it's starting to feel uncomfortable. I never knew you could grow out of a hat, and I don't wish to—this is my favorite hat. Oh well, I look better with my bangs showing anyway.

"I need to do something back home. Can't hang. Sorry." He replies.

"Nah, s'kay." I tell him. I watch him walk away. Great, no distraction from thinking of spaz. "Aww, fuck!" I yell, banging my head on the locker behind me because, as if I was telling some kids a bedtime story, I remember and narrate to myself what happened 7 years ago.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Craig hates Tweek, yet he thinks about him all the time. Haha. Anyway, made Token the 'indifferent' one, since Craig's the bully here. Oh, and I didn't write Craig's school day experience, because it's nothing interesting. Don't worry, I'll be writing 'the next day' fully because something's going to happen in the morning. Oh, must not spoil it for you. Also, I'm not sure if it's in Fourth or Third Grade: the fight I mean. So I made it Fourth Grade. Craig's in Eleventh right now—or whatever is equivalent to 2nd Year of High School. I don't live in the US. We don't have Middle School.


	2. Tweek VS Craig Retold

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I have already disclaimed at the preceded chapter. So I'll just disclaim this episode of the Third Season.

**Author's Notes: **Yeah, I watched the episode and wrote their lines word per word. It was a bit tiring to write. I had to make up scenes so it had something to do with the plot. Also, I made up that scene about Craig talking to Tweek at Lunch because when Stan and Kyle went to Tweek's house, he said: "Craig and I have no reason to fight!" and since it's in Craig's POV, I had to make up a reason why they didn't show up to fight. I also realized that Tweek doesn't stutter—he just talks fast. And shrieks. Well, whatever. I'll still have him stuttering when conversing here in the story. See end notes for **Further author's notes.**

* * *

**Chapter Two: Tweek VS. Craig Retold**

"_This is shop class," the teacher says. Then lifting a ruler, and pointing to the writings on the chalk board, he introduces himself. "My name is Mr. Adler. Next week, rather than your normal school work, you'll be learning how to make things. Now, does anybody know why you're in shop class?"_

"_To learn how to carry our bitches' shopping bags?" I whisper to Clyde at my right. He chuckles. Seriously, why is it called 'Shop Class' when we're suppose to _make things_? Not only is it so _manly_ put, but really ironic._

_Cartman glances at us; I flip him off._

"_Yes?" Mr. Adler says. I look at who he addressed it to and watch Stan. "Because we had to choose between this and Home Ec, and we didn't want to be sissies?" True._

_Mr. Adler stares at him. Then yells: "Wrong! You are here because you are America's future! You may someday be doctors or lawyers or scientists. Most of you however will be pumping gas or cutting cheap metal and that's why we have—" He hits his ruler on the board. "—Shop Class."_

_The class stares at him. Cartman breaks out: "Ohhh…"_

_We watch Mr. Adler walk to his desk. He puts his ruler down._ _"Now let me make one thing crystal clear. I don't like kids that screw around. You screw around in shop class, you could lose a hand or an eye. I have a…" He looks at the picture of a woman on his desk and picks it up. He continues to stutter: "I have…a…I have a…" What the hell happened to _him_? The girl is hideous! Oh, hold on—I guess they're perfect for each other._

"_Mr. Adler?" Kyle calls. That successfully catches his attention and snaps him out of his trance. "Huh? Oh, uh…" He puts the picture frame down carefully. "I was just saying that I want to know who's the biggest troublemaker in your class."_

_I'm starting to get a bad feeling. Someone's gonna go 'Craig!' any time now._

"_Tweek is!" I hear Stan exclaim. Wait—what?_

_Tweek is as surprised as I am. "AH! No I'm not!"_

"_Yeah, you are Tweek! You always get in trouble!" Kyle says, backing up his best friend. Typical._

_Tweek spazzes out and shrieks._

_It was Cartman who spoke next. "Uh, hello, excuse me, but Craig is the biggest troublemaker in our class."_

_Hah, I knew it! Wait—the hell am I saying to myself? I look at Mr. Adler and he asks: "That true, Craig? You a troublemaker?"_

_Am I? "No."_

"_Well, you better not be, because in shop class we—" I flip him off. "Ey! Did you just flip me off?"_

_I look at my raised middle finger and immediately hide it. "No." I lie, like _that_ would convince him._

"_Yes you did!"_

_Cartman smirks. "Told ya!" Fucking Fatass._

_Mr. Adler then tells us to look around the room and see how dangerous everything is so we wouldn't screw around. I look at a box of wood scraps. Wow, how _dangerous_. Suddenly, Cartman walks up to me. "Craig, can I talk to you real quick?" I flip him off for the accusation he made a while ago._

_He tells me that it'd be just for a second. He drapes his fat arm around my shoulders and pulled me away from the box I was inspecting. "Craig, I don't normally want to get involved in this kind of thing, but well I was just standing over by Tweek and he called you a big poop eater."_

_My eyes widen and my lips dropped slightly. "He did?"_

"_Yeah, he said that you eat poop, and that it makes your breath smell like poop and, well, you like it!"_

_I furrow my eyebrows, slightly annoyed. "Why would he say that?"_

"_I don't know, Craig, I don't know, but now he's over there telling everyone that you're a poop eater and he chooses you."_

_My grip on the wood scrap I'm holding onto tightens. "Well, I'm gonna go over there and—" Cartman steps in front of me to stop me. "No, no, Craig! You can't fight it here, Mr. Adler will just break it up!" It's true, and he'll accuse me of being the biggest troublemaker more. "Tell you what, I'll go tell him that you accept his challenge and set it up after school today."_

_I didn't think twice and I respond: "Okay." Then I flip Tweek off, before I return to the box of wood scraps. I hear Kyle yell: "There, he just flipped you off!"_

_Then Tweek: "AH! What a jerk!" That fucktard._

**~.::.~**

_I approach him sometime during lunch with a scowl. "What the fuck is your problem?"_

_He turns around and shrieks. Well, it's kind of obvious what his problem was._

"_I mean—why'd you go around telling everyone I eat shit?" Not exactly the right words, but the meaning is evident._

_He twitches. "GAH! I didn't say that! I didn't say anything!" He continues shaking violently. I'm not sure if it's out of fear or if it's what he calls normal to him. I soften my look. "Really?"_

_He nods furiously._

"_Oh. Okay."_

_He twitches. "A-are you p-pissed at me?"_

_I contemplate. I guess now that I know what that fat fuck said wasn't true, I guess there isn't any valid reason for me to be pissed at him. "I guess not."_

"_Oh. Okay then." He twitches. "So there's no fight?"_

"_Nope. I might miss Red Racer anyway." I look ahead and find Clyde and Token headed towards the lunch room. "See you around, Tweek."_

"_O-okay!"_

**~.::.~**

_When the school bell rang to signal the end of the day, I went ahead of Clyde and Token. And good thing too—I made it in time for Red Racer, my favorite cartoon. It's on its 3__rd__ season now, and the storyline just keeps getting better and better. A commercial went on when I heard a knock on the door. I answer and find Cartman and Kenny._

_Cartman looks pissed. "Craig, what are you doing home? You're supposed to be out fighting Tweek!"_

"_Red Racer's on!" I tell him, forgetting completely my and Tweek's talk a while ago._

"_Craig, you can watch Red Racer any day of the week!"_

"_I do watch Red racer every day of the week!" I say defensively._

_Cartman looks up towards the sky and places his hands behind his back. "Well, that's fine. I guess you don't care about what Tweek said about your mom…"_

"_Nope." I say quickly before slamming door. I ran to the living room to check the TV. A commercial about Nips. I hear knocks on the door again. Still Cartman and Kenny. He does likewise to what he did before mentioning Tweek and my mom. "Well, I guess you don't care about what Tweek said about your guinea pig…"_

_Hold up. I furrow my eyebrows. "What? What did he say about Stripe?"_

"_Oh, nothing." He says. "Except that you stick it up your ass before you go to bed."_

"_That son of a bitch, I'll kill him!" He can say what he likes about mom, but Stripe? And he accuses me of such disgusting thing? He's gonna get it!_

"_Yeah, I'd be pissed too. So maybe we should reschedule the fight for tomorrow?"_

_I consider this. "After red racer."_

"_After red racer, of course." Cartman says, glancing at Kenny._

**~.::.~**

_My family isn't really like those happy sunshine ones like the other families in South Park. Even Kenny's family is better than ours. We don't really care about each other—we just pretend to. Even at my age right now, I understand our situation perfectly well. You could say I inherited the finger flipping from my parents who constantly fought in my room when I was a kid. They would always end their fights with finger flipping. I bet that I was just an accident when they got drunk in some New Year party and fucked each other in the kitchen or something. Maybe once upon a time in their lives they told each other how much they love each other and how they couldn't live each passing day without each other there beside them. Maybe…it could be my fault for their fights? Possibly. And maybe they hate each other more because of Ruby. Yeah, that could be it. _

_I look towards my dad lifting a chicken leg we're having for dinner. "Dad, I'm supposed to get in a fight tomorrow." I don't know why I tell him when it's obvious that he doesn't care a thing of what I do, at school and at home._

"_With who?" He asks, finding the chicken leg more interesting than me._

"_Some kid." I answer._

"_Oh." He responds. Yep, he doesn't care. Like it's a surprise to me._

_Mom frowns at my dad and yells: Don't just 'oh' him Thomas!"_

_I frown at him too. "Yeah, don't just 'oh' me!"_

_Dad yells back: "I'll 'oh' whoever I want!"_

_In conclusion, we all flip each other off._

**~.::.~**

_The following day at recess, we gather at the Lunch Room and take our places at the longest table. A huge banner hangs above me with the words 'Tweek VS. Craig' printed on it. Cartman and Kenny are seated beside me, obviously on my side. I look at Stan seated at the other end as he talks. "Okay, so just to set the record straight here, the fight will be happening out by the teeter ball pole at 3:30. Tweek just weighed in at 48 pounds, Craig at 45."_

_Clyde raises his hand. "Uh, how long do you expect the fight to last?"_

_I try to reply: "Ah, I—"_

_Cartman puts his fat hand over my mouth. "However Craig wants it to last."_

_This makes the crowd laugh, and I continue to stare at him. "Make no mistake, Craig has been ready for this fight since day one, he doesn't even view it as a challenge!" What the hell is he talking about? I've been watching Red Racer since day one._

_Kyle retorts: "He'll be viewing it as a challenge when he gets his ass kicked!"_

_Cartman cups his hand behind his ear. "Did you hear that? It sounds like Diarrhea coming out of someone's mouth or something."_

"_Shut up, fatass!" Kyle exclaims in anger._

"_Don't call me fat, you son of a bitch!" And another Jew-versus-Fatass fight takes place and no sooner did the other two from their gang join it to—I don't know, to either stop the fight, or to support whoever. I look at Tweek shaking violently again then back at the fighting quartet._

"_Wow, Tweek and Craig really hate each other, huh? This would be a good fight!" I hear Clyde say._

**~.::.~**

_After school, I wait at the playground with a crowd behind me. Tweek comes with his own crowd and Stan and Kyle beside him. I hear Clyde say: "Oh boy, here we go!" Wendy approaches Kyle and asks him a question. Kyle answers and looks at Tweek with a confident grin. Stan leans over to Tweek and whispers something. When they approached us, the crowd joins together and watches us expectantly._

"_All right, here we go!" Stan yells excitedly._

"_Time for you to get proven wrong, fat boy." Kyle tells Cartman who replies: "You're gonna be eating those words, asshole."_

"_No I wont, because you'd eat them first, tubby." Cartman frowns._

_I stare at Tweek and I tighten my fist. I'll teach him a thing or two for saying that I shove Strip up my ass! _

_And then I remember: I don't know how to fight._

"_Well?" Stan says._

"_Come on!" Cartman shouts._

_I fix my stare at Tweek and raise my eyebrows in a questioning look. He gulps. He doesn't know how to start it either._

"_If you're gonna do it, do it!" Wendy yells somewhere from the back in annoyance._

_I turn to them and asks: "What do we do?"_

_Stan stares at me with an unbelieving look. "Huh?"_

_Cartman yells: "What do you mean what do you do? Just fight each other!"_

_Tweek turns to them as well. "How?"_

_Kyle has the same look as Stan. "How?!"_

"_I've never been to a fight before." I reason._

"_Me neither!" Tweek says._

_The audience groans._

"_Oh, dude come on!" Stan shouts in anger._

"_You just hit each other!" Cartman exclaims, impatience evident in his voice. "Knock each other around!"_

_I look at my balled up fist then back it Tweek. He curls his hand to a fist and weakly punches me on the chest. And I lamely punch him on the face. _

"_Dude, not like that!" Kyle shouts._

_Tweek looks at him. "Like what then?"_

_Stan approaches us. "All right, screw this! We have to postpone the fight so Tweek and Craig can learn how to fight!"_

_The crowd groans and whines as they disperse to different directions._

_Cartman and Kyle approach us as well: Cartman going to my side, Kyle going to Stan and Tweek's side._

_Stan looks at Tweek and says: "All right Tweek, we'll teach you how to fight. Cartman you teach Craig."_

_Cartman scoffs. "I don't think that's very fair. If I teach Craig he's gonna really kill Tweek."_

_Kenny appears and goes between Cartman and I. I would question him, but I don't give a fuck of what the guy does._

"_Oh yeah?" Stan questions. "Well I wanna want my uncle Jimbo to teach Tweek how to box!"_

"_Ooh, boxing! _Scary_ you guys!" Cartman says sarcastically. "I'm gonna have Craig learn Martial Arts!" Martial Arts? As in _white robe, yelling words no one really understands _and_ defense-crap_ martial arts? Great, just great._

"_Fine, we'll see you back here tomorrow!" Stan yells at us._

"_Fine!" Cartman yells back before the two groups head for different directions.  
_

"_Fine!" Kyle yells from a distance._

"_Fine, that's fine!" Cartman responds._

**~.::.~**

_Cartman takes me to _Nishimura School of Martial Arts_. He tells me to take my clothes off and to put on this thick white brief. He says it's a belt or something and is extremely comfortable. It isn't. He's such a retard._

_A Japanese guy takes me to a room and tells me to stand on the circle in the middle of the room. I think it's the Wrestling Ring. "Your friend has brought you to learn the ancient art of Sumou. You must learn discipline and respect."_

_(How's this for respect?) I flip him off._

_Pretending not to notice, the old man continues: "In Sumou, your body must be like a stone and your mind like a meat loaf."_

"_Meat loaf?" I retort._

"_The object is simply to push upon it out of circle. Is opponent ready?"_

"_I'm ready!" someone yells. Sounds like Cartman. He goes out properly dressed for Sumou wrestling. "Hey I like this hair thing, this is cool." he says as he leans toward a vase looking thing and gets a handful of salt out. He throws it over his chest._

"_Let us begin." Master, as he wanted to call himself, says._

_Cartman and I go to the opposite ends of the ring. Cartman does this stomping thing with a frown on his face. Master steps in the middle of the ring with his hands up. "Ready and…begin!" He declares as he backs away._

"_Respect my authoritaaah!" Cartman exclaims as we charge toward each other. We try pushing each other down. "Body like a stone! Mind like a meat loaf!" Master reminds._

_Cartman turns around and pushes me away with his ass. "Come on, come on!"_

"_Oh, Jesus! I can't take it!" I scream._

"_Fight back!" master tells me. "Resist the ass!"_

"_How can I resist an ass so great?!"_

"_It is only an ass. You must overcome the ass with your mind!"_

_I gulp. "This ass isn't like any I've encountered, master!"_

_And before I knew it, Cartman successfully throws me off the ring (still with his ass) and I hit the wall, losing conscious._

**~.::.~**

_Next day comes and I stand wearing the annoying brief staring at Tweek in a red and gold boxing coat. I shiver due to the cold winter season. I can't believe I have to wear something like this out in the open._ _"Okay, the time has finally come." Stan says._

_Somewhere, Clyde yells: "Programs! Get your programs!"_

_Stan takes off Tweek's coat. At least I'm not the only one who has to suffer. Tweek's in blue shorts. Jesus, is he thin! Scrawny, pale and anorexic—how could I _not_ weigh heavier than the spaz? Must be his big stomach…he's fucking malnourished! I watch Kyle whisper something to Tweek's ear he twitches. "Mean—GAH!—Mean!"_

_Cartman whispers in my ear: "The spirit of dragon is in your hands." Then he says something I couldn't understand. "All right?"_

"_Okay."_

_Cartman goes in front of me and shouts: "Now listen to me!" Then he repeats the gibberish…I think. "All right? No seriously!" Then shouts the whatever he was saying again._

"_Okay, okay!" I yell, unmistakably freaked out._

_Tweek and I walk toward each other. He furrows his eyebrows and raise his boxing gloved hands. I sigh, then furrow my eyebrows as well, gritting my teeth and lifting my fists._

_Tweek twitches and punches his gloves together. I stretch my neck left and right. He twitches again and I flip him off._

_Stan goes between us. He puts his hand on Tweek's shoulder. "Ready Tweek?"_

_Tweek nods._

"_Ready Craig?" And without waiting for my reply, he declares: "Let's get it on!"_

"_Respect my authority." I state rather awkwardly._

_I receive a punch on my face. God, that hurt! I tackle him. And it goes on like that: throwing punches, tackling each other, people cheering around us. Because of that, we exhaust ourselves and we stand, foreheads leaning on each other, gasping for breath. I hear Cartman tell me to kick some ass. I watch Tweek's visible winter breath, or whatever you call the air you see in winter when you breathe out, collide with mine and become one big puff of air. I want to sit. If Tweek's this tired, we should stop now, right? _

"_Whoa, Tweek did you hear that?" Kyle asks Tweek._

_Tweek looks at him, still breathing heavily. "What?"_

"_Craig just called you a boner!"_

"_ARGH!" Tweek shrieked, punching me in the face. _Goddamnit_! I grunt in fury and punch him back. We start tackling each other until we hit the old rusty slide, causing it to fall down behind us. Tweek takes a peek at the slide. "Huh?" He says. I yell at him and tackle him again. I grab his thin arm and throw him at the big window at Shop Class and jump to him to tackle him. The window breaks, and I successfully pin him down. He winces and twitches in pain. Shattered pieces of the glass are stabbing his porcelainesque skin. He grunts and shoves me away and tackles me, causing some glass to stab my back. And we continue to tackle each other, ignoring Mr. Adler's cries to 'Stop screwing around'_. _We hit Kenny's chair, and Tweek grabs my arm to throw me at the machine with the saws. Good thing I only hit the side, causing it to fall over. Tweek, frustration evident on his face, tackles me. And on it went. I think we killed Kenny. Eventually, we knock each other out and we both lose consciousness._

**~.::.~**

_We wake up later that day at Hells Pass, the only Hospital at South Park. My body really hurts—and Jesus Christ! What the hell did he do to my left eye? I look at the bed to my right and see him in a daze. He didn't have that much wounds compared to mine, but simply put, we both did each other good. The door of our room swings open and Stan and those guys enter with a bunch of other kids._

"_Hey guys, how're you feeling?" Stan asks us. What is he, blind? Can he not see the state we're in?_

"_GAH!" Tweek yells._

"_Ah." I say as well._

"_Yeah, uh, we just came by 'cause we've got something to tell you." Stan tells us. Now what is it this time?_

"_Yeah, see, we got you into a fight cause we wanted to see who was the toughest." Kyle continues. "We made all those stuff up to get you guys mad at each other!"_

_What the fuck?! They got us beating each other to a pulp because of a fucking _bet_?! (I couldn't scrunch my face up to form a scowl, but I stretch my arm up and flip them off.)_

"_Yes, you can flip us off, Craig." Fatass says. "We deserve that. We just came by to apologize. We feel so bad."_

"_Boy, do we ever." Fucking Jew agrees. I don't even _want_ to know the degree of sincerity in that statement!_

"_So I guess we'll be going now." Epitome-of-bitches-dater says. "And we'll just live with the knowledge that…you're both kind of sissies." Everyone turns around to head out._

_I blink. And in unison, Tweek and I yell: "What?!"_

_The group turns around to face us again. Stan clarifies: "Well, I mean. That's what's on the news."_

"_What was on the news?" I demand.  
_

"_Oh, you didn't see it?" Cartman questions. Of course we didn't see it! "Tweek's family was on the news saying what a wuss you are, Craig."_

"_HUH?!" I yell unbelieving._

"_Yeah!" Kyle backs up. "Then Craig's family came on and said Tweek was the wuss. And punched Tweek's mom in the hooters!"_

_Tweek jumps on his bed with an irritated expression and shrieks. "GAH! You son of a bitch!" Then he jumps to my bed and tackles me. I kick him off the bed, causing the both of us to fall down on the floor. "I'm gonna kick your ass!" I yell, tackling him again._

_The kids start cheering, and I guess this is how they got the attention of a nurse. She comes in and screams just as I pin Tweek down, sitting on his legs to prevent him from getting away. I look up to the nurse._

"_What are you _doing_, young man?" She questions. Then she turns to the other kids and yells at them to get out of the room. She walks over to me and pull on the collar of my coat. I scream: "He started it!" _

"_Martha! Get in here!" She yells at the door. She's not listening to me!_

_Said Martha comes in with a vaccine. I make a fuss and kick Tweek's balls._

"_Come on and sedate him! Quick!" The nurse says._

"_I'm gonna kill you when we get out of this place, Tweek! You fucking cocksucker! I hate you! I hate—GAH!" I scream as Martha stabs my leg with the sedative._

_And the last thing I see is a doctor coming in through the door and hug Tweek. "It's all right, son. That wuss won't hurt you anymore."_

_And that's when you're fucking wrong._

_

* * *

  
_

**Author's Notes: **Poor Tweek and Craig. And don't tell me all the tackling and pinning down and grabbing and throwing didn't make you grin like a madman. Sigh… **Read and Review**, if you feel like it. Thank you! And LOL at the 'ass' conversation of Craig and Master Old Man.


	3. That's What You Get

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I don't own TMNT nor Tekken. I don't own _Clint Eastwood_ by the Gorillaz, _Nine in the Afternoon_ by Panic! At the Disco and _Shy Guy_ by Diana King. I don't own _Hustler_ nor _Penthouse_ magazines, because I loathe porn unless it's drawn and it's boy/boy. Lastly, I don't own _Harbucks_.

**Author's Notes: **I was noted that it's Tenth grade that is the equivalent of 2nd year, not Eleventh, so there will be changes. I was too lazy to change the first chapter though. Sorry. And…I don't know what else to say. I have mixed feelings about this chapter. Just tell me what you think, whatever that may be. Thanks for the reviews, by the way. And also, I wasn't thinking of Paramore when I thought of the title. And then I did a few seconds later. I don't fancy Paramore. Although some of their songs are catchy. Apologies to those who like them.

* * *

**Chapter Three: That's What You Get**

I trudge through the snow, muttering expletives just because some people with '_virgin ears_' might call the cops and charge me for disruption if I scream to the heavens, and that'll piss me off more. I can't believe how stupid I was before—disregard the fact that I was Eight years old. I mean, the kid population have messed up families, curse 24/7 and could do Government errands if they had to. That's how fucked up this place is.

But I'm thinking too much again.

I screw my eyes shut and poke my index fingers in my ears. "I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad. I got sunshine in a bag." I begin to sing. "I'm useless, but not for long. The future is coming on…" Usually, when I find myself thinking too much, I would stop and sing lines from songs I've heard over the radio or MTV that morning, or recite lines from nursery rhymes or just repeat the line '_FIGJAM_' over and over. Maybe Token's right—I should get myself an iPod. But he says it like you could get one in a blink of an eye, which is probably true for him. I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. If I did, my parents would have _totally_ freaked out and I would be more messed up. Spoons don't make great pacifiers anyway.

"Nine in the Afternoon…your eyes are the size of the moon…" Whoa, if I was a girl and someone sang me that line, I would kick his ass. Who would want to hear how big their eyes are? And comparing it to the moon is downright insulting. And it's supposed to be a love song, I think. Weird.

I shift to _Shy Guy_, but as I start the song, I find myself in front of my house. I smile inwardly and run-walk towards the door. I enter and find my little sister Ruby playing _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles _on the PS2. I walk towards the DVD games pile in the cabinet and scavenge for a particular game. "Hey shrimp," I address my sister. "I'm going to _Tekken_. So move over." I pull out the game I want and look at Ruby.

"No." She says simply, eyes focused on the TV screen and fingers moving about the controller. "It's my turn. And God blessed me with no homework today."

"You don't move, I turn it off myself." I threaten. "Scoot."

She rolls her eyes. "Fine, I'll just finish this sta—"

"Now, bitch."

"Okay, okay, I'll just throw some—"

"I'm gonna turn it off, now."

"Shit! Fine!" She jumps down the sofa, throwing the black controller on the carpeted floor right after saving her game. "I don't get where you get all your sand up your vagina!"

I shake my head, taking out the _TMNT_ CD and putting the _Tekken_ in. My sister has no idea of what I do or what happens to me at school besides that I always get in trouble because when I get detention or when my parents get called over for a conference, they would get mad at me and bitch all night without breaking a sweat. They hate it especially when they get invited for a talk because they have to pull on this 'Nice Guy' charade complete with smiles, etiquette and chockfull of ideas of the good things I have done, and most of them are complete lies. They get tired of lying a lot when questioned, most especially when asked: _If Craig is such an angel at home, why is he a complete asshole at school?_ Exaggerated, I know, but that's what Mom and Dad said they asked every time. Sometimes they would throw in extra adjectives to show their anger and exhaustion of reasoning.

Sometimes I wonder why they go through so much trouble. Why not tell them flat-out that they have no fucking idea why their son is a juvenile delinquent because they're too wrapped up in their own shitty problems to actually _try_ to hear him out and support him and accept him for what he's become which is another thing they don't know about? What _have_ their son become? Next time they ask what is wrong with me—if they _care_ enough to ask—I'll tell them this: I'm fucked up because of you and because of these group of kids that trick me into things I regret ever doing in my life and because my two closest friends don't spend time with me that much anymore and because I FUCKING WANT TO MURDER TWEEK TWEAK.

"AUGH!" I scream after I subconsciously punch the side of my face hard.

"What the fuck did you just do to yourself?" I hear. I look at my sister, eyebrows raised and face projecting the silent message '_FREAK_', and then at the small amount of blood at my knuckle. I think I bit my lip. I shrug. "Reflex," I say before concentrating at the screen.

"Retard," she says. I flip her off and she does the same, then leaves me to play my game.

**~.::.~**

I ended up playing _Tekken _all night. It's like an addiction for me—when I have no one to vent all my anger and frustration on, I pour them out here. I get all my fighting moves from the combos I throw to my computer opponent and vice versa. It's somehow like my enemy is the Spaz, I beat the hell out of him with my awesome moves, I win (Three out of ZERO), I come in the next day at school and I relive my game experience. I stopped playing when Mom and Dad came home sometime around midnight from wherever and yelled at me for being up at that time and forced me to get to bed by threatening to smash the console with an axe. I took a quick bath and plopped down on my bed and slept.

And I feel like an idiot for not noticing my hamster alarm clock missing from my bedside table. It was Clyde's text message that woke me up. I guess I forgot to change my ring tone. Waking up to the tune of chickens imitating the _Mission Impossible_ theme song is quite annoying to say the least.

_wer r u? bab dude!_

BAB, in Clyde's dictionary, means _Banged a Babe_, and by the looks of it, he can't wait to narrate his night to me. I check the time on my cell phone, rubbing my eyes, and—HOLY SHIT, IT'S 9 O' CLOCK?

I jump out of my bed and scramble towards my closet for fresh clothes. I know I've been late a few times before so this shouldn't be worth fussing over, but my daily school attendance is also a concern and is strictly observed (which, in other words, means that the violations—more than 7 absentees/tardiness—affect my grades more than supposed) and I just _have_ to have so many violations that go in my permanent record.

I zip my pants up, shove my cell phone in my jeans pocket and grab a pair of socks and Nike shoes. After putting them on, I snatch my GAP hoodie, my trademark hat, my black scarf, my blue gloves and my sling bag and race out of the house, putting them on as I run.

_Clock MIA. Just woke up_, I message back to Clyde after all that.

I receive an immediate reply. _Ruby?_

_idk maybe_

_u owe me 1_

By that I figure he covered me up during roll call in homeroom. I reply: _tnx._

I arrive at school about 9 something: tired, sleepy, horrid-looking, and deeply annoyed. I could just drop dead then and there as I pass the school main doors. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying hard not to focus on my throbbing head and my rapid heartbeat. I walk through the hallways, past lockers from different students to reach mine. But as I near the area, I stop at the familiar and disgusting sight a few feet away from my destination. Even at my groggy vision, the thin figure with the crapped lion's mane is crystal clear, and I slap my forehead then pinch the bridge of my nose in irritation: Spaz is also fucking late. Whoop-dee-do, destiny.

I stomp towards my locker—why does mine have to be near his? I hear his things fall from his eagerness to leave and his twitching problem. "Oh, jesus!" he shrieks. I grunt and turn towards him with a glare and flip him off. "Goddamnit, Spaz! Do you _have_ to piss me off _every day_ with _every single thing_ you do? Get out of here!"

He squeaks and scurries off after a quick sweep of everything that fell on the floor. I sigh, closing the locker door and massage my temples. As I am about to head for 2nd class, I pause at the sight of a curious green thermos on the floor. I pick it up. _Harbucks_ it says in big silver letters. "Coffee…" I mutter and then I cringe. I'm holding Spaz property! Then again…I could do something to this and open up an amusing show…

Yeah, I probably will.

**~.::.~**

I attend 2nd class which is Algebra which spells B-O-R-I-N-G. No one that matters are in my class so I don't keep myself awake, passing the hour away. Recess bell wakes me up and I leave to meet up with Clyde and Token by the Elementary School playground. Clyde starts his very detailed sex epic that both disgusts me and amuses me. I'm nothing close to being a pervert, as you could see. I like flirting, but that's a given guy trait. I don't _make the move_ that advances us to go on a date or even call each other to say the least. I don't go online and type _porn_ or _Hustler/Penthouse models_ on the Google search bar. The only times I look at pictures of half-naked or fully-naked women are when I chance upon Dad's magazines or when Token and I come over at Clyde's. I have no idea what his parents say about it or if they even know their son is a hardcore pervert. I also wonder why girls even do that—shed skin on camera or bars and such. I'm guessing it's for profit, for the heck of it, for fun or other reasons I don't feel like conjuring. I wouldn't understand. I'm no porn star.

"Hot, man. Hot," Clyde concludes with a satisfied grin.

"You say that to every fuck," Token reminds.

"Your point?"

"Fucktard."

"Yeah, I am!"

Token shakes his head and turns to face me. "So, Craig. Why weren't you in Journ?"

"Played _Tekken_ last night. Got too into the game. Stopped when parents got home around midnight. I woke up at 9 because of Clyde's text—thanks for that by the way—and I couldn't find my clock. Ruby must have kept it for revenge. I forced her out of playing so I could." I answer.

"Tweek wasn't in Journalism too," Clyde says. Token slaps the back of Clyde's head in warning. Instead of sneering at the forbidden name, I smirk.

"Uh-oh," Token mutters. "A smirk instead of a glare. It's the sign of the apocalypse."

"Asshole," I chuckle and flip him off.

Clyde's eyes widen and a grin grows. "You did something to him, didn't you?"

"_Maybe_?" I glance at my Casio watch. "Next is Bio. We're all there, even Spaz. You'll just have to kick back, relax and enjoy the show."

3rd period bell sounds and we walk to our room. We take our usual seats: Clyde behind me at the fourth row and Token at my left. Stan and those guys enter the room as well and take their usual seats: Kyle at my right, Stan in front of him, Cartman at Stan's left and diagonally right from Kenny at the first row. Butters sits diagonally left from Clyde and occupying the rest of the seats are Wendy's bitch gang and some other people. There is a vacant seat beside Stan at his right and that's where the Spaz sits. After a few more minutes of chatting and standing at different parts of the room, Mr. Biology (I always forget his name) enters and he yells at the class: "All right, come on, take your seats!"

The class scramble to their places and greet him: "Good morning, Mr. Vitner." Ah, that's it.

"Good morning. Today we'll be discussi—"

"OH GOD!" A shriek sounds as the door flies open to reveal Spaz breathing hard and clutching onto his books, burying his fingernails down on the sides.

"Mr. Tweak, take a seat! You're late!" Mr. Vitner scolds at him. Spaz shrieks once again and runs to his seat, stumbling and bumping to things here and there. He sits down shaking more violently than ever—like a sex vibrator. His eyes are bigger than usual and his hair more messed up.

"As I was saying, we are to discuss the Animal Kingdom."

"GAAAAHHH!" Spaz screams, pulling on his hair like a monster tearing his shirt apart.

"Tweek Tweak, goddamnit!" Mr. V yells at him. "What is the problem?"

"COFFEE!" He yells back, banging his head on his desk. "AUGH! CAN'T FIND MY THERMOS! GAH!"

I smirk, trying to suppress a chuckle.

"If you aren't going to shut your mouth, leave this class now!" Mr. V shouts back it him. Spaz covers his mouth. I think he's whimpering.

Mr. V grunts. "Craig, give me a subgroup of the Animalia."

I flip him off and answer: "The freak groups. Those who give floors blowjobs and who look like the Ugly Kids morphed together and stabbed with a stick for a body, thrown in a vat of assorted animal shit, stepped on, chewed on, run over and decorated with dead hair from Barber Shop's garbage." I state then gesture towards Spaz. "It's over there, if you want a perfect example."

The class bursts in laughter. I smile in triumph: Everybody hates Spaz, but leaves the torment to me. None would compare to my assaults—I hate him more than them all. Even Stan, Butters and Token join in the laughter, and they're the pussies (or in Token's case, the apathetic ones) of the class.

Spaz screams, falls from his chair and hyperventilates.

"Fucking diseased, man!" I comment, still trying to hold my serious face. "Call the Pest Control or Ghost Busters and that _still_ won't suffice!"

Spaz jumps to his feet and points a finger at me. "_GAH_!—YOU DICKSHIT!" Then pounces on me. I fall backwards hard on the floor. "ARGH—COCKSUCKER!" I punch him hard on the face, sending him colliding with my desk which then crashes against Cartman's chair.

I grab his collar and seethe: "YOU GONNA TRY AND DO THAT AGAIN, BITCH?"

Spaz shrieks.

Mr. V bangs his fist on his table. "CRAIG TUCKER, TWEAK TWEAK, COUNSELOR'S OFFICE NOW!"

**~.::.~**

I walk briskly in frustration, Spaz tailing far behind. I take a detour to the Boys' Washroom and kick its trash bin, making the lid fall off. Before I attended Geometry, I went in here to throw away the Spaz's thermos. If I hear him shriek after the next 5 seconds, I am going to tear him to shreds, no kidding!

I yank the cover out and check its contents: yeah, there's still coffee. I don't give a fuck if it's contaminated or not. I exit the washroom and head towards Spaz not so far behind now. I stop in front of him and shove the thermos against his chest. "I got your stupid coffee, okay? There! God!" I release my grip and turn to continue my journey towards the Counselor's I am getting sick and tired to seeing.

I swing the door open, startling Mr. Mackey not of my presence but of my sudden entry.

"Craig again," He sighs, then gestures to the chair in front of him. "Sit, mmkay."

As I do, the door creaks open slowly to reveal the Spaz. Mr. Mackey stares at him. "And Tweek? Are you also here to see me?" Spaz nods his head—I think. I can't stand looking at his fucked up appearance.

"Grab a chair over there, mmkay," Mr. Mackey tells him kindly. Spaz does so in careful and slow movements. As he takes a seat, he fiddles with his thermos.

"Mmkay, Craig, you talk first, mmkay," Mr. Mackey says.

"I'm here because of _him_!" I yell, pointing at Spaz. "It's _always_ been his fault! I fucking hate him so much it drives me _nuts!_ Okay, so I threw his thermos at the trash—"

"AH!" Spaz screams. "GERMS!"

"Shut UP, freak!" I exclaim, shooting him a vicious glare. "He fucking _deserves _it, man! So he shows up at Biology, freaks out like hell and calls me a fucking _dickshit_ and tackles me! He went at it _first_!"

"Mmkay," Mr. Mackey says nodding his head. "It sounds more like _your_ fault, Craig."

"You don't fucking _get_ me, Fathead!" I scream, then bury my face on the palms of my hands, elbows supported by my knees.

"Your anger never really made sense, mmkay," he comments. I grunt. "Tweek, why do you put up with all of this, mmkay? Why not defend yourself, mmkay? I'm not saying violence is the key for vengeance, mmkay, but why won't you stand up for yourself?"

I wait for a faggy reply, face still on my palms. Seconds pass—still silence. Mr. Mackey sighs. "Mmkay, I see."

"What do you mean '_I see_'? The freak didn't say anything." I ask him, lifting my head up.

"Craig, there are times when silence has the loudest voice," Mr. Mackey stands up. "And I have just the solution."

**~.::.~**

I'm starting to miss my days before the session with Mr. Mackey. I only get to see Spaz sometimes in the morning and in three of my classes.

Now I have to see him every day. Allow me to wallow in my misery.

"FUCKING SHIT DAMN BULL COCK ASS BITCH FAGGOT JESUSMARYJOSEPH !" I cry to the heavens above, punching and kicking my neighboring lockers.

"All right, breathe, Craig!" Token tells me, patting my back. "Shit man, that sucks dick!"

"That's it. There's no other way," I mutter, head resting against my locker. "I'm going to have to kill myself."

"Fuck, Craig, don't be such a pussy." Clyde tells me, scratching his head in frustration. "Geez, but it really does suck! Having Freak breathe down your neck every day? Damn!"

Mr. Mackey's genius plan is this: Tweek would have to attend all my classes—because I didn't want to readjust my own schedule—be seated right next to each other in each class, and be partners in every school work until we _make peace_ and start things over. And right now, the chances are like South Park without its fucked up population or falling madly in love with Cartman which are both IMPOSSIBLE.

But I have to do it—out of force, that is to be kicked out of school if I don't approve, then clean the entire school inside and out 24/7, help out Chef in serving food and help out the snarky hag in the library for the rest of the remaining school months before I go apply for another school that accepts an incoming Eleventh grader who didn't reach 3rd semester of Tenth and got kicked out. But if I thought about it longer, that would be way better than having to put up with Spaz every fucking moment in my life sans at home. It's a harsh consequence—something they thought I _deserve_, when in fact it would actually give me euphoria, though it would destroy my whole life. Not that this wouldn't destroy my life.

"If you are actually regretting making that decision to be with that _Problem_ for the rest of the school year instead of getting expelled, then goddamn, Craig." Token says to me.

I scoff and roll my eyes. "I don't even know why I 'okay'ed. And for the first time, I think I've got no battle plan."

"This is hopeless," Clyde sighs.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Yeah, no shit." I sigh. "Well guys, this is the worst way to die. Wish me luck—that I won't go crazy in the first 5 minutes of the 1st class tomorrow."

"Sure, whatever Craig." Token says with a shrug of the shoulders.

"You are so brave." Clyde pats my shoulder. "I'll pray for you, buddy. I sure will."

I flip them off. "Thanks." I mutter, before an aggressive bang of my head against my locker.

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **I absolutely have no idea what's next. Pray for me.


	4. You Snooze You Get Through An F'd Up Day

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I don't own any of the famous mentioned things. Too lazy to list them down. (Actually, my sister is forcing me out of my laptop. So I have no time, and I really want to post this now.)

**Author's Notes: **Yeah, feel Craig's misery. Read on, please. Oh, and I would like to dedicate this to my loathe towards Biology. Also, to InnerSakura101 for the Kenny/Butters idea. I'll get to that scene in the next chapter, maybe. I'm a fan of her drawings. ^^~ Check them out, please! I would like to thank Raigo, XsilverXserenade2, Dolphin-Fly, Darkmoonphase, Don'tKillKenny, Helene, Saiyuri-Chan and InnerSakura101 for the reviews. Happy New Year, guys! Good things will come this year, I just know it. It has to. 2008 felt like shit. Maybe not to me, but for some people out there. Anyway…ON WITH THE STORY!

* * *

**Chapter Four: You Snooze, You Get Through A Fucked Up Day **

I dreaded this day to come. Alas, it did. But who am I kidding? God hates me and the whole of South Park, and who am I to decide how the Earth should function anyway? But looking at the Brightside: I broke into Ruby's Pink-loaded room and found my Hamster clock under her bed. She took out the double A batteries, but I had time to run to the store down the street, all the while devising the perfect revenge. In the end, I bought a roll of duct tape and waited until she turned in for sleep before covering the entire doorway. Midway, I took a piece of short bond paper and wrote 'GOT YA' in big black letters. I'm very sure her door opened inwardly.

I got up early and moved fast. As much as I would like to hear her scream my name at the top of her lungs, I didn't want to face two angry wrinkled faces that are my parents'. They aren't exactly morning persons as well. And so I took a quick shower and left, a few bucks from Ruby's savings in hand. Hiding your money in a transparent Hello Kitty bank under your bed, then hiding your brother's alarm clock with it isn't a very intelligent thing to do.

I scratch the back of my head, careful not to have my hat fall over. Let's see…McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King, White Castle…

I'll go with McDonald's.

I step inside and order a double cheeseburger, large fries, coke and an apple pie. I have about 30 minutes until class starts, so I take a leisure walk around the park. From here to South Park High is a 2 minute walk, so I have nothing to rush or worry about.

Actually, I'm just hoping that 30 minutes won't fly by so quickly. But I must repeat: God hates me and the whole of South Park, and who am I to decide how the Earth should function anyway?

I check my watch, decide to leave for school and shove my unfinished burger and fries down my sling bag then throw away my coke and empty apple pie box. I head for school singing random songs to prevent myself from thinking about what is to come this day. I reach my locker—Clyde and Token already gone for their classes. Every Thursday, their 1st subject is Computer, and the first rule in Comp is to be at the Lab 5 minutes before the bell.

I open my locker and pull out my English Book. "Hey, Craig!" I hear from behind me. I turn my head slightly and see Kenny's grinning face just a few inches away from mine. I give him a sneer and push his face away _oh so gently_ with my palm.

"Ow, fuck! My nose!" He cries, covering the said part.

"What do you want?" I ask after I realize Kyle and Stan are with him.

"Nothing," Kyle answers. "Kenny just saw you and just started walking towards you."

"I was going to bid you good luck!" Kenny says enthusiastically as he pats my back. There is that other remarkable trait of him: schadenfreude. He stays on your side but laughs his ass off when you suffer. Asshole.

"Don't you die on us now," he continues. "I was hoping to hit on you next after I convince Stan to fuck me."

"I'm not _gay_, Kenny!" Stan yells at him. "No hell way am I going to let you bang me!"

Kenny shrugs his shoulders. "Whatever, Stan. You may not want it now, but you're going to drop on your knees and beg me to give you a blowjob sooner or later." At this, Kyle breaks into hysterical laughter. Stan rolls his eyes and kicks Kyle's shin.

"So, Craig, looks like you're on top of my list now." Kenny says with a wink.

I roll my eyes and grunt. "Likewise to Stan's retort." I say. "Looks like you're gonna have to find another person who's actually willing to be hit on by you."

"Like Butters," Kyle snickers. "That little ray of gay sunshine will do anything for Cartman. He's the paradigm of naivety. Besides, you two would look good together."

I give a smirk as Kenny's eyebrows furrow. And then he crosses his arms, staring down at the floor. I frown. "You're not actually _considering_ that, are you?"

He lifts his head and smirks. "I accept your challenge. I'm Kenneth McCormick, Sex God and King of all Whores. There isn't a thing that I _can't_ do."

"Except to stop dying all the time," Stan comments.

Kenny waves his right hand in the air as if shooing away the said statement.

"If you're self-proclaimed King, go hook up with Wendy then. You'll make the perfect couple," I tell him, ignoring the glare I am receiving from Stan. "Picture the conversation you'd be having over dinner with your dozens of kids: 'So, Wendy, who did you give a blowjob last night?' 'I gave a hot one to Gregory, Ken. Who did you fuck last night?' 'Christophe.' 'Oh, I love you, Kenny!' 'I love you too, bitch!' " I snigger. Kyle laughs hard once again, Kenny shakes his head but smirks, and Stan just crosses his arms and stares at the floor.

"Dude," Kyle says in between giggles. "You mimicking a girl's voice is _epic_."

I shrug my shoulders. Kenny chuckles. "Yeah, but you trying to copy _my_ sexy voice is _epic fail_. Jackass."

"Whatever, Ken." I smirk.

"Uhm…Craig?" a soft voice calls. _Shit_. I frown, roll my eyes and turn around to flip him off.

"What do you want?" I seethe.

"I need your sch-schedule…" He whispers. I furiously scratch the back of my head, my hat falling over in the process. Well, I wouldn't want him tailing behind me every time to know what subject is next. And I especially don't want him to come up to me to ask.

I grunt and scavenge my locker. Kenny, Kyle and Stan have backed away to have a better view of what is to come. I retrieve a folded paper and open it up. I read the title at the top of the page: _Sched_. Yeah, this is it. I shove it against his chest. "There. Keep it. I don't want to hold things you did." He stares at the paper then nods. I sneer and bang his head hard on the locker. He clutches the side of his head and bites his lip to refrain himself from screaming in pain. "Horsefucker, this is all your fault!" I yell at him before I push him backwards, flip him off and leave. "I fucking hope that _you_ die, not me."

**~.::.~**

English is the first subject, and I take my usual seat at the side near the window. Anne, my seatmate, went to sit beside Red somewhere at the back. I guess everyone received word of my misery. I would have been so happy to _not_ have that Renee Zellweger whore beside me, but then I remember the reason why she isn't.

I bang my head on the table to avoid looking at Spaz. This is killing me…

"C-Craig…?"

Must. Not. Answer.

"Y-you dropped your hat…"

Oh shit, I forgot about that. I guess I was in so much hurry to leave that I didn't pick my hat up from the floor. Oh god, and now he's touching it, isn't he?

I lift my head up and glare at him. He fucking is.

"I'm s-sorry for touching it…K-Kenny and the others d-didn't notice…th-thank you for the s-schedule…" He stutters that _really fucking _annoys me.

I snatch my hat, then grab the collar of his shirt. "Listen, let's make this easy for me. I don't want you talking to me—hell, I don't even want to hear your _voice_! I'm going to go sleep through all my classes so I wouldn't see your ugly face, so I suggest you help me and shut up or I will do the honors and fucking _end_ all this!" I conclude threatening to wring his neck.

"GAH!" He screams, then covers his mouth quickly.

I release him. "Good." I rest my head on my folded arms on top of my desk.

"Good morning class," I hear Mr. Garrison greet.

"Good morning, Mr. Garrison," the class replies. I didn't hear Spaz—that is so fucking great.

"And?"

"Good morning, Mr. Hat."

Jesus, I hate Mr. Garrison. He's a fag that had a sex change then changed back to a man and is seriously more fucked up than all of us, what with his fucking puppet he fags over and he thinks is a person. But I'd rather be stuck with him than the Freak beside me.

"All right," Mr. Garrison says. "Today we're going to discuss Phonemes and Transcribing words."

YAWN. I'm going to go sleep through this. I don't need to listen to the fag talk about how he had such a hard time in College because of that topic and how everyone in his class were pronouncing aloud to transcribe the words in their test right and how they were forced to memorize the phonemes and blah blah blah…

It didn't take long for me to drift to sleep, and _thank god_! But, to me, it also didn't take long for me to wake up from a dream about flying cows and milk carton-shaped shit falling down from the sky to Mr. Garrison yelling: "You'll be working as partners, so choose away." I lift my head up, rubbing the crud out of my eyes and trying hard to suppress a yawn. There were writings on the board—I guess I was out for quite a while, it seems. Mr. Garrison looks at me and says: "Except for you, Craig. You're with Tweek."

I grunt and roll my eyes. "No need to fucking rub that on my face, faggot," I murmur. I turn towards Spaz. "What are we supposed to do?"

He glances at me for a split second before looking back down at his desk. "Transcribe."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Uhm—the words…we're supposed to…" He gulps and twitches. "Er…transcribe them…"

I scoff. "Just fucking show me, goddamnit, if you can't explain it! Jesus…"

He jumps a little and faces me, placing his spiral notebook down on his lap. The word '_Condolence_' is written on the page. He shakily writes a slash, then mutters: "You're s-supposed to write the w-word by how it's p-pronounced, but using the ph-phonemes or the p-pronunciation s-symbols…" He lifts a chart of the phonemes as his guide and starts transcribing.

In the end it looked like /kendolens/ with the '_e_'s upside down and the '_o_' with a dash above it.

"So you just have to follow the chart?" I question. He nods in reply. I grab the chart from him and take a look. There are three columns: the first two are symbols (IPA and Webster as the headings) and the third column has sample words. "How many words are we supposed to transcribe?"

"Uhm…19 left…"

I scowl. "All right, you take the next 9 words and I take the second half," I tell him, foraging through my bag for my notebook. "And—god_fucking_damnit—we'll have to share your chart."

At the first few words, I had a hard time. I guess when you start trying to transcribe words, they all start to sound the same. And the fucking _schwa_ isn't any help to me. Why didn't Mr. Garrison just let us transcribe one-syllable words like _cat_ or _dog_ or _shit_ or something. I don't even know half of the words on the list. What the hell is a _libretto_? Does it have something to do with nachos?

As soon as I finish, I bang my head on my desk in relief. "Frikkin' done…"

I look up to Spaz who was fidgeting and biting his pencil eraser. I grumble: "What?"

He bites his lip and glances at me for a split second, then tugs his hair.

I sneer. "What?!"

He squeaks.

"Just fucking say it," I demand.

He gulps. "B-baggage…"

I close my eyes and stay silent in deep annoyance. But I must congratulate myself: I have gone through the first hour of my day with Spaz. I tolerated working with him for the first time, so if it starts this good, then I have nothing to worry about…I hope.

I sigh, eyes still closed. " '_i_'."

**~.::.~**

"Dude, you all right?" Clyde asks me as soon as I enter the Journalism classroom.

"I'm breathing," I tell him simply, placing my bag down beside my seat.

"How did it go?" Token questions next.

"Fine. I slept in class." I answer, receiving understanding nods from the two. "Got through a partner activity. We split the work so we wouldn't have to talk to each other."

"Glad it's working out for you, so far," Token says.

I shrug. "I guess that's my battle plan: sleep."

And that's how it went throughout the day. We didn't do anything special during Journ, just listened to Clyde and Token converse during Recess, got longer snooze time during Health (woke up in time for a test and I passed it cleaner than it should have been), and now I'm eating my unfinished burger and fries at our lunch table—our meaning Clyde, Token, Stan, Kyle, Cartman and Kenny respectively clockwise from me.

"It's pretty obvious you'll stay a virgin, Fatass," Kyle says to him. "Whether you like it or not."

"I thought Ken's gonna get laid with all the guys now?" Clyde says with a smirk.

Kenny sips his juice. "Yeah, but that'll be a long time from now. When that time comes, I'm gonna slip some weight loss pills in his food when he isn't looking, I guess." The entire table bursts out laughing, sans Cartman and I just smirked.

"Ay! I'll have you know that some girls out there think I'm hot!" Cartman retorts.

"Says the bottom of the list," Token says, chuckling.

"Oh, sure. Are _you _a virgin, nigger?" Cartman yells at him.

Token shrugs it off and was about to reply when Kenny bangs his palms on the table, a beaming grin on his face. "Okay, let's have a bet, fatass!" he addresses Cartman. "If one of us says he's a virgin, we'll have to give you all the money in our pockets and our lunch."

I look down at my food. Just 2 or 3 fries. I look at the others' food—enough to satisfy the fatass.

Cartman glares at Kenny. "You're on!"

Kenny chuckles and stretches his arms. "You all know Kenneth McCormick, Sex God and King of all Whores!"

Clyde smirks. "And I'm following his footsteps."

"And he's the 2nd fatest kid in town," Kyle comments.

Clyde's smirk turns into a sneer. "I'm fucking bigboned, goddamnit!"

"That's what they all say," Token replies.

Kenny points at Stan. "Got laid?"

He averts his eyes and mumbles: "Wendy…"

"Oh, yeah," Kenny says, then turns to Kyle. "Kyle, my little Jew boy?"

"Bebe," he answers, twirling the pasta on his food plate. "She got me drunk and we hit it off."

"Token?" Kenny then questions.

"Wendy," Token looks at Stan apathetically. "Sorry, dude."

Stan crosses his arms, still avoiding eye contact. "Whatever."

All look expectantly at me—Cartman still having high hopes. Kenny puts his arm around my shoulders and says: "And Craig Tucker, numero uno of the controversial List back in fourth grade, potential Badass of South Park High, victim of—"

"Nope," I answer blatantly.

Everyone's eyes widen, mouths hanging—sans Cartman who's mouth broke into a beaming grin likewise to Kenny's when he suggested the bet.

"…What?" Kenny questions.

I sigh. I could say '_Just kidding, you fucktards! Haha! I like fucked 3 or 4 chicks, already! What do I look like to you, a pussy?_' And everyone would break into laughter and sighs of relief, while Cartman would be cursing at us like we're the only ones in the Lunch Room. But I'm not that type—the Liar type. You'd think I would get it from my parents, but you see, I hate them so much that I pity myself for being their child and so I make it a point not to grow up to be like them. Except for the whole _Beating Up Spaz_ thing I'm so infamous for.

"Sorry, guys," I say. "I'd rather not ride in with the _Pre-marital Hanky-Panky_ Wagon."

"Oh, you're such a pussy, Craig," Cartman tells me, obviously in a good mood.

"Shut it," Clyde tells him. "Unlike you, if Craig's willing, he could get a babe in a matter of seconds!"

"Top of the List here," Kyle informs.

I scoff. "If the girls had a chance to renew that kiddy list, it'd be Kenny on top, no questions asked."

"Humble," Kenny chuckles, patting my head. "And moral. When it comes to getting laid, I mean."

"Whatever, dudes." I reply, pulling out the dollar bill I still had in my pocket. "And, hell, a bet's a bet."

The whole table groans to the sound of a fatass laughing in sweet success.

**~.::.~**

Next is Biology. Kyle now sits beside Stan to give way to Spaz. Mr. Vitner comes in, an evil smirk plastered on his face when he fixes his gaze upon Spaz and I. I glare at him and flip him off. He ignores me—too much in a good mood.

"All right, class. It's that time again when we think of Science Investigatory Projects." At this, the class groans. It's practically the worst project we have to do every year. "You're going to work as partners, so when I call your name, choose a buddy. Kyle Broflovski?"

"Stan," he says grinning to his _super_ best friend.

"Whole name!" Mr. V barks.

"Stanley Marsh, sir!" Kyle replies, quivering.

"Kenneth McCormick?"

Kenny turns around to look at Cartman in the eye. He smirks then sticks his tongue out. "Leopold Stotch, sir!"

Cartman's mouth hangs in disbelief. "Butters?!"

Butters blinks in confusion. "H-Huh?"

Kenny laughs in triumph. "Pay back from getting my meatloaf, fatass!"

I glance over to Kyle and Stan talking to each other, taking quick looks at Kenny and Butters. I know we're all thinking the same thing.

"Settle down!" Mr. V yells. "Clyde Donovan?"

"Token Black," he answers. Token looks at him then rolls his eyes. It's obvious that Clyde chose Token because Token's a smart ass and would most likely get them both an A+. If Clyde wouldn't care about hid grade, he would choose a Wendy-bitch.

"Barbara Stevens?" Mr. V continues.

"Wendy Testaburger."

"Rebecca?"

"Heidi."

And it goes on until Mr. V calls Pip's name.

"Philipp Pirrup?"

Pip looks around, then lays eyes on Cartman, probably screaming in his head. He looks at me, then at Spaz. "Oh, I guess there isn't any other choice, sir," he says in his annoying British accent. "I'd have to pick Eric Cartman."

Cartman bangs his head on the desk.

He writes it down and looks smugly at me. "And the notorious Craig Tucker is with the edgy Tweek Tweak." He chuckles. "How…exciting."

I bite my lip and flip him off. "Suck it, asslicker!"

He sneers back at me and seethes: "I will let that pass, for now, Tucker!"

The rest of the period, we had to plan what our project would be. For 5 minutes, Spaz and I say nothing to each other, letting my head cool off. And then I speak: "Go think of something."

He twitches. "Gah!—too…much…pre—"

"OF COURSE THERE'S FUCKING PRESSURE, FREAK!" I yell at him, earning stares from the whole class. "Go think of something, 'cause I'm pretty pissed right now and I don't want you coming to my house if we don't think of a project to propose by the end of Bio! All right, Spaz?!"

"Craig Tucker!" Mr. Dickshit yells from across the room.

"FUCK OFF!" I scream at him, jumping to my feet with tightened fists.

"Counselor's office, NOW!"

**~.::.~**

"And then he just makes fun of me! Can you believe that asshole?! He fucking knows I'm suffering like hell, and he _laughs_ at me! Well, Ken kind of laughed at me too, but he's _Kenny_! I just want to fucking kick _Mr. Biology_ in the nuts like there's no tomorrow!" I slump back in my chair as I finish, pouting.

Mr. Mackey stares at me wide eyed. "W-Wow, Craig…so it's Mr. Vitner you're mad at?"

"Yes!" I scream.

He nods and writes something down his notepad. "It's the first time you came here and ranted on someone _besides_ Tweek, mmkay," he says smiling.

My eyes widen only slightly. "What?" Well, I didn't really have any problems with him that much because I slept through all my classes. It's my only salvation from Spaz, really. Should I say that? Or is he gonna rat me out and tell all my teachers to watch out for a snoozing Craig? "You know, sometimes I get tired of stressing over him. It shouldn't be a surprise that I don't bitch about him…you know…" Not exactly a lie, but not entirely the whole truth. I guess I win.

"So…are you doing well?" he asks me next.

I groan. "Bio's gonna end soon, and we've got no topic yet for the IP. And—fuck! He's gonna have to come to _my_ house so we could think of something! SHIT!" I exclaim, banging my knuckles on my knees.

"Mmkay, Craig, just ignore Mr. Vitner's taunts. It'll soon pass…when you finally make peace with Tweek."

"That is not going to happen, okay?" I stand. "I'll die before you see us together. Before anyone sees us together. I hate Spaz, and that's that."

**~.::.~**

Statistics flew by fast, thanks to Cartman being kidnapped by a House Bunny and Clyde doing this funny jig to the music of _Billie Jean_ and Kyle and Stan making out in a flower field and Kenny and Token parodying _Genie in a Bottle_—all that being a dream, of course. Something I wouldn't mind happening. I mean, please: Could someone take the fatass away for good? And _jesus_, Clyde looked ridiculous! I want to video tape that and maybe perhaps broadcast his pelvic thrusts in YouTube! And _hell_, that was some hot Jew-Pussy loving I dreamt about! And I could care less of what Kenny and Token were writing.

I didn't have club today and so didn't Spaz. And as much as I hated it, I had to invite him over so we could think of a topic, then create the draft of the proposal tomorrow. If that horsefucker of a Biology teacher wasn't so impatient, then I wouldn't even be talking to Spaz after class.

"I…have to t-tell my p-parents first…" he tells me, pulling on the hem of his shirt.

"Whatever, freak. My house is the one near Raisins. Our mailbox's got my surname on it, so just look for that one. Jesus, I hate this." I shake my head from side to side.

"…O-okay…" he answers, twitching.

I lift my hand up, fingers spread out like a fan. "Here. For Biology. For the whole fucking day." He lifts his head up slightly, confusion etched on his face. I furrow my eyebrows, grab his hair with my raised hand and throw him against the wall. "You didn't think I wanted a High Five, did you, Twitch?"

I left him like that.

When I got home, I only had 30 minutes of privacy when I heard a faint knock on the door.

I turn the TV off and answer the door. Spaz stands there twitching, a laptop bag hanging over his right shoulder and a new _Harbucks_ thermos on his hands.

I grunt and head towards the door. "Room."

When we got to my room, I drop myself on my bed, burying my face on the newly washed bed sheets.

I hear him take his laptop out from its bag, and flipping of pages. I glance at him and see him searching through our big-assed Biology book. Our topic has to be Biology-related, that is it should concern life: animals, people or nature. The sound of the chickens break the awkward silence. I pull out my phone from my pocket.

_1 new message: Clyde_

I press the _open_ option. _we didn't c u bell. r u home?_

I reply: _ip w/ spaz. dying_

His next message is this: _still praying_

I groan. I look back at Spaz, now biting his fingernails and twitching terribly. I roll my eyes. "Just fucking get us a topic, okay? I want you out of my house soon!"

He jumps. "Can-can't…choose—too much p-pressure!" He shrieks. I roll of my bed, landing on the floor on my back. I grab his collar and pull him towards me. "I don't fucking care about you and your problem. I just want a topic right now so I could shove my finger up Mr. Bio's ass. Now go suck your face in that laptop of yours and GET US A PROJECT!" I push him away in anger and climb back up my bed. Just being with him in one room is like being inside a Gas Chamber during Hitler's reign.

And no later did I drift away to sleep. But I awake from a nightmare about Cartman's massive ass on a Dance Club. I groan, rubbing my head. I prop myself up and find Spaz, still here, sprawled on the floor and typing away on his laptop.

I yawn, catching his attention. I ask him: "Got one?"

He replies quietly: "Biomass…if it would make a great added ingredient to self-hardening clay…i-it's related to life…sort of…"

I continue to stare at him. I move to the edge of the bed, feet now touching the floor. I lean forward and rest my forearms on my legs. "Look."

He pauses. I'm guessing he's listening.

"We won't survive if we keep working like this. You got us a topic and that's a fucking relief. So here's the deal: You write the project proposal draft, and I do the experiment. Fair enough? If it isn't for you, I don't give a fuck. So got it?"

He stays there motionless, then quietly gathers his things, turns his laptop off and keeps it in his bag before leaving my room and my house without saying another word.

And for a moment there, I thought I'm actually bothered.

_Haha! Joke of the year!_

_

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**Further Author's Notes: **I'll be going back to school on Monday. So updates may be slower. I'll try hard to post soon again. Really, I will! I've got chockfull of ideas for the next chapter, so don't you worry. ;) Forgive me if there are errors. And yeah, Craig's not much of a jackass in this chapter. Ya, srsly. But you could kick his balls, if you want to. **Read and Review**, please. :D


	5. How I Act, How I Think

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I don't own South Park and any of the famous things mentioned. Like Disney. And _Fuck Off Song_ is written by Reel Big Fish. I stumbled upon that while I was in my _Johnny the Homicidal Maniac_ phase.

**Author's Notes:** Ahah. Instant Drama as the first school day of 2009 started. I got lower grades than usual in my examinations. I usually get a 90+ over 100, but I got 80+. (Sad face) Yeah, it's pretty much a big deal to me, sorry. And I got a fucking 60 something over 100 in Biology. Stupid Genetics and your trihybrid crosses. FUCK YOU.

Anyway, nothing special in this chapter. At least, that's what I think. You be the judge. Oh, and I apologize if Craig isn't that consistent. That's a sickness of mine when I write. I don't make characters consistent, driving me to edit all the past chapters so it flows right. But I have no intention of editing the other chapters seeing as I have already posted them for the world to see…read. Whatever.

So far, I have 3 mood swing attacks. I'm not bipolar, nor as fucked up as Tweek or Craig—just a mood swinger. I don't even know why I added that here. (Shoots self) Go on ahead. Thanks for the reviews so far. (Insert smiley here) Longest one I've written just because it didn't feel right to cut it at the 'after planning how to do the IP' part. Oh, and think about the Chapter's title while reading this chapter. If the message I want to portray is transmitted, I winz. XD

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**Chapter Five: How I Act and How I Think**

"How was bonding time with Twitchy?" Clyde asks me the next day.

"Worse than watching Cartman strip butt naked in a Dance Club…" I mumble, closing my locker door.

"What did you say?" Token asks me with an inquisitive look.

"Nothing," I say more loudly this time. "We split the job: He's gonna do the paper, I'll do the experiment, documentation, yadda yadda yadda…saves me more anti-Spaz space."

Clyde shrugs and Token frowns. I arch my eyebrows and change the subject. "I think I forgot my PE shirt. You guys have a spare?"

"What do you mean '_you think_'? Go check first, dumbass." Token tells me. I roll my eyes—Token could be a total dick sometimes. "I was just making sure if you guys have a spare just in case I check later and I don't have one, douchebag," I say. He grunts.

I furrow my eyebrows. "What's up _your_ ass? Last time I checked, I'm the one suffering like Jesus on the cross here, not you."

"Dude, chill," Clyde says with a circular gesture of his hands. "Token's pissed 'cause I slept with Millie last night instead of helping him with the paper."

"Then why is he assing with me, and not you?" I point out.

"I already did," Token grumbles. "At least you've got a diligent partner, Craig. Even though that industry is forced by your death threats."

"I didn't do anything either, man," I reply.

He rolls his eyes. "Your partner's Freak. I totally understand." He glares at Clyde. "I'm sure that if you actually _like _your partner, you would have contributed something, Craig. Unlike _one_ of us here."

"I said I was sorry!" Clyde exclaims exasperatedly.

"Go fuck yourself, Clyde." Token sneers.

"Guys!" I call, putting my hands on both their shoulders. "Whether you like it or not, you guys are going to work on that project together. Token, give Clyde a break—he could just work on the experiment, of course with you watching over in case he messes it up. And Clyde, you can't get an A+ by being a lazy fucktard. Just kiss and make-up, okay?"

They glare at me, and in unison, yell: "Says the guy working with Spaz!"

I push them away in annoyance. "He's a different case! Look, we three have been together through thick and thin, and _Jesus Christ_, you know each other! So just forgive and forget because I am _really pissed off_ that I'm saying these things to you because this is getting fucking ironic, what with this case about me and Spaz! But that's okay, 'cause I don't follow my own advice anyway, so screw you guys, work this out on your own, and _Super Craig _will fly off to Algebra and dream about Chupacabra in a frilly skirt. Good day, bitches." I storm off.

I've always hated acting like the peacemaker of our group. That's another contradiction for you. I'm a pretty complicated guy. Sometimes I even surprise myself of how I act. I guess it's this duty of mine, being the so-called leader of our group they moniker '_Craig and those other guys_'. And since Token doesn't care about anything sans himself and his academics, and sex and booze—no drugs—running inside Clyde's mind in an endless cycle, I'm the only sensible one left to make sure nothing breaks us apart. I'm quite a character, aren't I?

Those two should be grateful: I intervene when an argument blossoms, I'm always available when they want to hang out, and—well, I can't say I stick up for them. They don't need that at all; they could take care of themselves. We're all respected. No one has the guts to bother us, excluding Stan and those guys. But us two groups are one big circle—an untouchable one.

If I should say so myself, I don't think I'm cut out to be entitled _School's Badass_, but so isn't Cartman for countless of reasons you probably have an idea what. To be a complete _Badass_, for me, is to be feared and respected—that, I am—and, wholly, be a total asshole—that, not who I am. I have friends I don't lie to, stand by with and care for—yeah, I do worry about them. Surprise, surprise. Also, I don't do drugs, don't do girls, don't do alcohol. And trust me, a _lot_ of people think I do those. You saw how surprised Kenny and the others were when I told them I haven't fucked a girl. If they initiated another bet regarding the other aforementioned '_guy needs_', I would lose again. It's not just because I don't want to end up like my parents. It's just…I don't feel like doing those things. I think they're idiotic. I'd like to think I know better than that; that I'm so much better than that.

I know I'm not. I kick people's asses, I disrespect my teachers, I have the nerve to flip everyone off, I take daily trips to the Counselor (which is where only messed up kids go to), I have this homicidal intention towards Spaz, I am infamous to all the teachers of South Park High, I hate my family, I almost got myself expelled and so much more. I'm nothing better than everyone else. I'm just like them.

Whatever…I don't understand myself. I'm so intricate.

All these I think during Algebra and Computer. That's another escape of mine besides sleep—think. There are times when I think about other things besides Spaz, you know, so I don't _necessarily_ hate thinking too much.

But let's save you the trouble and fast forward to Physical Education, my favorite subject. PE's the only class where the boys and girls are separated, mainly because of past scandals perhaps a Clyde or Kenny-ish group have done. But that's not the reason why I like PE.

"All right, children!" Coach Chef shouts after blowing his annoying whistle. Chef isn't only the School's cook now, he's our PE teacher. And a good one too. "Volleyball!"

I smirk—I am one of the best players in Volleyball. I'm not even surprised when Chef calls me to be Captain of Team One.

"Craig, take off your hat," Chef tells me. I casually do so, passing it on to Clyde. I look at Chef who is studying his record. "Consisting of Team Craig would be…Tweek—"

"Goddamnit!" I yell instantly. Spaz shrieks and drops his thermos—the sound resonating the Gym.

"When Mr. Mackey said in every group activity, he meant _every group activity_." Chef reasons. I roll my eyes.

"Kenny."

Kenny stands up and walks towards me grinning. "Let's go hit some balls!" The class chuckles.

"Whatever, Ken," I say. Although, there _are_ times when I dislike PE, and that's when Kenny randomly shouts perverted ovations and cheers of encouragement. Though that can't be helped: Kenny comes in a package. A _huge_ one at that.

Chef continues. "Butters."

Kenny turns his head, grin wider than before. He seriously _is_ going for the kid. Jesus Christ…

"Gregory."

That foreigner's on my team? Well, he's fairly great at this. Hold on—is Chef doing what I think he's doing?

"And Pip," Chef concludes. _I knew it._

"What the fuck, Chef!" I yell at him. "Why the hell is my team full of blonds?"

The class breaks into '_Oh yeah!_'s and fits of laughter. Chef shrugs and answers: "I thought it would be funny. And it is, to these kids."

I flip him off in frustration.

"Okay." Chef says next. "Team two: Captain is Stan; members are Kyle, Christophe, Token, Clyde and—"

"I don't want the fatass in my team, Chef!" Stan proclaims. Cartman's retort of surprise is shunned by everyone and Chef nods. "Kevin." He blows his whistle. "Positions!"

The volleyball is passed to me and I dribble it thrice, venting my anger and making sure the ball is right. Stan got most of our friends, and I got Kenny. Why did he have to be the only blond in our circle? Why did I even _have _to have all my members Sun-tops? I blame this on Spaz. Don't even pretend you have no idea why. I get to my stance, right hand ready to spike. I look at Chef. He blows his whistle and I serve the ball.

Token receives it, hitting the ball upward. "Kyle!" Stan calls.

Kyle goes for it, sending the ball over the net.

"Kenny!" I yell. He runs towards it and hits it. The ball goes over the net.

"Christophe!" Stan exclaims. Said French kid stays standing, arms crossed. The ball slams to the floor beside his left foot. "What the fuck, Christophe?!" Stan yells.

"I 'ate volee," He seethes.

Kyle groans. "Chef!"

"Jesus, Christophe, go back to the bench. Bradley, you're up." Chef says.

"What about me?!" Cartman questions.

"No way, you stink!" Clyde taunts.

Next server is Spaz. I grimace. "Goddamn—it's obvious the point will go to Stan's team."

Spaz twitches, then looks at Chef for instructions. Chef waves. "Don't mind him, Tweek. Serve."

Spaz gulps and clutches onto the white Spalding, and for a moment I think he's trying to pop it likewise to a balloon. And for a moment, I think he's succeeding.

"Serve!" I yell. He squeaks, tosses the ball up and spikes it weakly. I eye the ball intently. It hits the top of the net and falls towards Stan's court.

Clyde slides forward in attempt to hit the ball, but fails.

Chef blows his whistle and gestures to my side. I spin around to face Spaz with a slightly annoyed face to contain my shock. He starts to panic, muttering apologies that are meant to Stan's team. I stride towards him and hit his head. "Stupid," I whisper for it to be audible to only him. "You got us a point. Just stop being a freak and focus on the game! We'll win if you just…" I glance at my teammates at the corner of my eye, then look back down at Spaz. Everyone's staring at me. I clench my fist and continue from where I took off, louder at this time. "…stop being such a Twitch Dick and stand up!"

I grab his shirt sleeve and pull him upwards to his feet. I grunt and walk back to my spot. Next server is Kenny.

The game goes on; and soon, Stan's team has more points than mine. Reason? Spaz—avoiding the balls as if they're meteors falling down from the sky. At every point Team 2 earns, my temper rises. But I shouldn't deny that as the game prolonged, it becomes more exciting. And before long, it burns up like Global Warming's last stand. The two teams have been passing the ball to each other for about a minute now, and the gym echoes the entire class' cheers to whoever they support. My eyes are everywhere: to the ball, to my teammates, to Stan's team, to the receiver and to whomever the ball is heading towards. And then I lay eyes at Spaz, screeches drowning in the class' shouts of excitement. I cringe—pathetic, useless, and _hopeless_. I just want him to get out of this game now! He can't play with that fucked up behavior of his! I'm just so…_ticked off_ right now.

It's at this point of the game when I notice the ball after being spiked by Token, the strongest spiker in our class, heading towards me, but I don't call it mine. I glance behind me for a split second—Spaz, pulling on his shirt. I grimace, and as the ball reaches me, I jump out of the way—the ball hitting Spaz's face hard, making him stumble backwards and fall flat on the floor.

I breathe heavily, and I ignore everyone's stares and the sudden silence.

"What the—Craig!" I hear Chef yell.

I pretend to not hear him and I walk over to Spaz. I stare down at his bruised face; I frown and flip him off.

He twitches.

**~.::.~**

I wipe my forehead with my clean face towel. I sigh and lose interest in watching the game I am now not part of. Spaz isn't in good condition to play—he never was. Chef had to keep him playing because he had to stay attached to me. Now I gave myself an excuse to _not_ play, and that means Spaz couldn't too. Team one is scoring fairly higher, now that Spaz is gone.

_I did it to save the fucking game. It wouldn't go anywhere if the Spaz stayed. Jesus._

I rest my head on my arms which in turn lay on top of my knees. We had about 45 minutes, more or less, of Physical Education. This is going to take a while. Chupacabra, here I come.

**~.::.~**

After PE is lunch. Nothing special—just random topics they converse about. Normally, I wouldn't say anything and just listen, joining in when the topic catches my interest or when it concerns me in any way. I don't talk that much when I sit with my circle. That's mostly because of their _being_ guys: all girls, all cars, all games, everything a _boy_ stereotype would be. And, as I've mentioned before, I fall at a distance.

Unless, of course, I'm being superficial with them. I don't know much about Stan and those guys: what goes through their heads, what their _other_ interests are, what they aspire to become and all that jazz.

As for Token and Clyde, I guess it's safe to say that I know them inside and out—having been friends with them for at least 6 years.

You know, sometimes I wonder if those two know _me_ inside and out.

Suddenly, I find myself in a daze. The next think I know, I'm sitting in Biology class, watching Spaz rise to his feet and wait for everyone else to present their draft proposals. I don't even try to care when I spot Mr. V conversing, or _questioning_ as I would like to put it, with Spaz. After which he leafed through our paper, gave it back saying something, and Spaz walked back to his chair and sat, hands clutched onto the stapled short bonds. I would ask him if Mr. Dickshit approved it or not, but I decide to slip away to slumber or in deep thought.

English went on the same way—dull and a time for extended sleep. There was a quiz on Phonemes and on transcribing words, though—I think I got through that fine. Another useless day, done and over with.

Well, maybe not quite. I still have my club: Basketball.

I use my long legs as an advantage. I have noticed that I'm fairly taller than everyone (that matters). Plus I've taught myself to spin the orange Spalding on the tip of my middle finger. It amuses my own self.

To tell the truth, I'm not that interested in shooting hoops. Actually, I had a hard time choosing a club for me to take. It had to be clubs under either Sports or Performing Arts, mainly because I didn't want to be a fag and choose a club under Culinary Arts and because I'm not that talented to choose one under Communication Arts and Visual Arts. And then, I realized I didn't know how to play a single instrument, and that left me to choose an extracurricular activity under Sports.

That also took me a while due to all that I had to regard.

I couldn't choose Football because that's a Stan thing. And I've never liked the idea of being trampled on by dozens of men.

I didn't want to choose Softball because I just can't stand Kenny's innuendos. He had told me he was going to sign under that, and immediately, I crossed that off my list.

I didn't want to choose Volleyball because I get enough of that at PE class.

I didn't want to choose Swimming, even though I'm one of those people who could. Plus, people who would sign up for that, I guess, have heaters transplanted inside their bodies. Seriously, who would swim in this fucked up South Park weather?

I could have chosen Track and Field, but I came to realize that you could do all the running you could get along the streets of South Park were about everything absolutely fucked up could happen. This also was what numerous thought and decided to stay clear from that list. Only a few joined, as I've heard. Insane, but not as mad as those who joined Swimming. And Synchronized Swimming—_ick_.

I didn't want to sign up for Taekwondo nor Karatedo. Let's say I'm not all into their '_defense_' policy, if you call it that.

And _hell no_ to Ballroom Dancing. Although that _is_ interesting.

And don't get me started on Gymnastics and Chess.

In the end, I turned down almost the whole of the list, sans Basketball. And I said to myself: Meh—fine, I'll go with this. Like I had a choice, really.

I'm not like the others who _know_ what they want. Football for Stan (A given.); Baseball for Kenny (He likes to _hit it hard_, as he put it. He attempted going for Dramatics, and he would have gotten it if he just didn't think about _bats_ and _balls_ and whatever.); Forensics, Speech and Debate for Cartman (Together with Wendy and Bebe. Cartman and Wendy will forever oppose each other.); Fencing for Token (I don't know why. This is my theory: Rich Kid = Fencing.); Radio Production and Broadcasting for Kyle (For reasons, I believe, are connected to his weird mind-set on life—like he wants to spread the message, to me his own opinion, of what life really is and how it goes and all that jazz.); Ballroom Dancing _strangely_ for Clyde (Could be for the girls to woo, or perhaps he's a closet _So You Think You Can Dance_ and _Step it Up and Dance_ fanatic. Either way, he's pretty great at it.); Handicrafts for Butters (I just wanted to list him as well because it's funny.); Cheerleading for every other girl that follow the _girl_ stereotype; and either Football or Basketball for the boys who fall under the _guy_ stereotype. Another reason why I don't fancy my club. Too many jocks that follow the _Jock_ stereotype.

What is it really about stereotyping?

If typecasting is what the world revolves around, I would have been in the Guitar or Concert Band club and the others wherever the world's superficiality would put them under.

But I digress.

Every time in Basketball, it's the same: Warm-up exercises, practice shooting, play a game—Ninth graders and Eleventh graders versus Tenth and Twelfth—take a break, play again, break, play, break, on and on until the 2 hours are up. I've never mastered shooting the basketball through the net, though. But I'm fairly faster in running across the court while dribbling the ball than all the other players, so they pretty much depend on me in stealing and bringing it to our hoop, where they would grab it from me and score. I don't mind actually. Dunking is a Jock's shining moment, and I don't want to take the glory away from them. I couldn't do that anyway, even if I wanted to. I can't say I never _try_—I do, I just never practice hard enough to succeed.

"All right, take 10 everybody," Coach yells.

I drop myself at the first few steps of the Gym's bleachers beside my bag, grabbing my water bottle and face towel. I always forget to buy myself a comb. I always thought that I never needed one because: a) my hair is short, b) I always wear my blue aviator hat and c) I didn't care about how I look.

My hair is slightly longer now—you could see it peek from under my hat, there are times when I _don't _wear my hat anymore, and I have started to despise my _wet look_. I appear as a furry stuffed toy wet from the rain, or a dog that swam in Stark's Pond then shook itself dry. And that's just hideous.

"Hey, Tucker!" I hear my teammate call. I glance at him; he holds up the Spalding and throws it toward me. I catch it right before it hits my chest. "Make yourself useful and practice," he tells me. I grunt and flip him off. Fucking senior…

He rolls his eyes and says: "And some guy's looking for you." He points at the Gym doors and I cringe as I see Spaz walking briskly, heading for me.

"Uhm…" He starts when he reaches me. "H-here's the procedure…" He hands it to me and I question: "So the bastard actually approved it." I fold it fourthly and stuff it inside my bag. I catch him nodding and then opening his mouth slightly in attempt to say something. He then hesitates, biting his lip, and tightens his grip on his thermos.

I raise my eyebrows in inquiry, and he twitches. I sneer at him and hit him with the basketball. "Get out of my sight, Freak, if you've got nothing else to tell me." He shrieks, rubs the sore spot and hurries away.

My club mates all stare at me, faces forming I don't care what.

I hear Coach's whistle. "Back to the game, everybody!"

After club, I take a quick shower then head home. On the way, I text Clyde: _u doin nething?_

I receive a reply about 5 minutes later. _ip at token's. wont let me go until i finish. sorry. do yours?_

I chuckle inwardly. Definitely not Clyde. Token must have fought him for the phone in case it was a girl that would distract him from doing their project. Clyde never texts in complete words and he never suggests what I could do when he's busy.

And so I message back: _k token. gud luck w clyde._ He doesn't reply.

When I reached home, I notice three notes on the coffee table of the Living Room. The first one I read is fountain pen-inked and scripted in such a way that it would pass as a doctor's. My dad's obviously.

_Business trip for 1 week_, it says simply. I pick up the second note. Feminine handwriting complete with the curls as if it were a 9 year old who wrote. _Going to visit your dying grandmother. 1 week at most._

Aww, I'll miss grandma's generosity and cash.

The last note had me snickering because it's obviously from Ruby. It's written with the same marker I used for when I stuck that _Got You_ memo in the middle of the duct tape mess on her doorway. She still hasn't gotten over the whole thing. I remember yesterday night when Spaz left, she came home from wherever and started screaming at me and throwing fits. She had to cut through the doorway to get out, using up the 15 minutes that should have been for taking a shower. I still don't get why women have to take time when bathing themselves. She stormed off with a groan of annoyance when I just flipped her off, sticking my tongue out.

_FUCK YOU, CRAIG! FUCKING ROT IN HELL, YOU DICKSHIT! WILL STAY AT RIE'S PLACE FOR THE WEEKEND! CAN'T FUCKING STAND YOU, ASSHOLE!_

I crumple the three notes and toss them in the small garbage can near the TV before lying on the couch and debating with myself. So I've got nothing to do now. My parents won't be here for a week, Ruby's at her friend's, Clyde and Token are busy with the project and—_the project…_

I should probably start now, seeing as I've got nothing else to occupy myself with and because I want to shove the finished project in Mr. Asslicker's self-satisfied face. I take the paper out from my bag and read.

_What the fuck_, I have to _bake_? Well, not really, it's like arts and crafts back in Preschool, only it's salt, flour and water we're using as materials. And dried leaves. Wait—where the hell am I supposed to get dried leaves here in the Winter Cesspool that is South Park? Should I walk to Harbucks and explode all my complaints?

Ugh, Spaz is the last person I would want to see right now.

I head to the kitchen and check the cabinets for flour and salt. _Bingo_. So all I need are dried leaves.

And then it hit me—_Middle Park._ It's always Autumn there making it the point of Envy for South and North Park. North Park has Summer as its fucked up season. I've always considered moving to Middle Park where it's not too hot that it could drive you to lie naked in front of your open refrigerator, and not too cold that it could drive you to pour scalding water over you. But I _re_considered, knowing that Middle Park residents are stuck-up rich kids that don't know the meaning of _work_. Like a hybrids of Mr. Biology, Token and Disney Movie Sequel writers.

Although Middle Park's a long way, and I haven't gotten my driver's license yet. I guess I could live with using my bike to travel there. It would take at most half an hour to go there, then less than a minute to gather some leaves at the road of the entrance, then another half-hour to head back.

So it's decided.

I lie back down on the couch and bring my right hand over my eyes. I fucking hate Science Investigatory Projects.

I realize that I have fallen asleep on the couch after declaring that statement when Saturday came. My parents didn't leave me any money for food and emergencies—that's how uncaring as they could get—and I couldn't find Ruby's Hello Kitty money bank under her bed either. Hah, she actually _thought_ for once. So as much as I didn't want to, I had to use my own savings to buy myself cheap fast food for breakfast before heading on to Middle Park. It's been long since I've cycled that long a distance, so I'm quite excited to go. I'm inclined to taking risks like biking on the slightly iced streets of this town. Hey, as long as nothing has happened to me yet, I'll keep doing it. I prefer to be sorry, rather than be safe. That's Craig's crazy side talking.

I throw my cheeseburger wrapper in the trash can and start biking to Middle Park. I'm not wearing my favored blue hat right now—I love breezes that make my hair fly away from my face, not just because it makes it easier for me to travel. It's, well, relaxing. I would rather bike my entire life rather than stay in this shithole.

I think I'd be a much better person.

Actually, no. I would be the same non-assholic person I _could have been_ if I hadn't met Spaz.

Funny isn't it—that it all comes down to be Spaz's fault?

Well, let's face it: He's a fucking shit pile.

I guess I would still be _kind of_ an asshole if I hadn't met Spaz. My family don't exactly have anything to do with him. So I guess they'll still be as bitchy as they are now.

Clyde and the others I guess would take over in bullying Spaz, because I'm _very_ sure they hate him for…because he's…_wierd_.

Yeah, that's a valid enough excuse. I guess…

And I would be watching in the sidelines because I don't bully innocent people. Innocent in the sense that they have never done anything to harm me. Spaz's personality isn't exactly detrimental to anyone, not even to me. And if he punches me out of reflex, it's accidental so it's somehow forgiven and paid back with the right amount, that is punch him back with the same force and same place he did. Other than that, he would be like this fly I would just swat away and keep walking.

But Spaz and I got into a huge _fight_ that was _forced_ and we had a _second_ fight started by _him_ and the nurses _didn't_ believe me and _drugged_ me and (Here's the part when I got _really_ mad at the guy) the doctors asked him who started the fight and he just _screamed_ and _freaked out_ as if giving away that _I _did it and that _misled_ the doctors and _both_ our parents and the fucking doctors _forced_ my parents to _pay _for _his_ medical fee and I was _yelling_ at him to tell them the _real_ truth but he just…_spazzed_. Can you fucking believe that? I don't _care_ if he's freaked by my aggressiveness and the _pressure_—his personality _and_ his participation from the fight burdened _me_ when in fact I'm _completely_ guiltless. Not only were my family in the brink of becoming like the McCormicks, but I was grounded the entire school year that year! I couldn't even _buy _a single thing—not even fries from Burger King! I only had to eat what was available at home and _ick!_ Don't you see why I hate him so much?

I can't stand him. I can't stand him. I can't stand him.

I breathe out and feel my temperature rising—temperwise—and I decide to hum a tune I remember from that old radio I got from the basement a while ago.

_Well first of all, I'd like to say 'Fuck Off'_

_If you don't get it why don't you go shove your head back up your ass_

_Don't waste my time, I don't need your opinion_

_No…_

I wonder if Stan and those guys, Token and Clyde are pissed off at him for compelling reasons. Annoyed by just his personality? It should be what he _does_ with that personality of his. It should be what _harm_ that personality did to you. It should be _him_ wholly that you are to be ticked off about.

_You don't know what it's like_

_You don't know what it's like_

_You don't know what it's like to be like me_

_You don't know, so keep your mouth shut_

I have all the right reasons to make his life living hell. Only I have the right reasons to wish him gone. Only I.

Crap, I sound so possessive. _Disgusting_. But true. It just seems that…you know. I don't have to repeat myself. It tires me.

Just like how this ride is tiring my legs. Good thing I spot the Middle Park signage nearing. I didn't realize how long it's been—must be the commentary.

I screech to a stop at the entrance which is a tree walkway, leaves everfalling in warm colors. I take my plastic bag which I hung on one of the handles and filled it with dry leaves. I tie the bag to prevent the contents from flying off as I sail back and hang it once again on the bike's handles. I take the time to look around. I figure my body's gotten used to the winter that even a slight season change makes sweat drip down my forehead.

I remember those clichéd romance scenes involving tree walkways like these during an Autumn season. Possibly because this place is utterly beautiful in their eyes. It isn't all that special. They're just trees that are balding for Winter (Which never occurs here in Middle Park). But then I think: how come I don't see anyone here in this area? Back in South Park, the entrance still had kids having a snowball fight. It isn't a very good reason when you say it's because this is path is what cuts the forest in half, and the forest is _no place_ for you to be at, even if it's the main road.

Oh, wait—Middle Park. Rich dickbiting kids. I _totally_ understand now.

I sneer at what a waste this place is and head back to South Park with my bike. And I couldn't help but realize how stunning that tree walkway is.

**~.::.~**

I cringe at the revolting stench of the mixture and at the feel of the mass on my bare hands. It's sticky and stinky. Wow, I rhymed.

_What_?! Jesus, Craig!

I peer at the procedure paper on the table and read the next steps. I need to form a shape. What the hell? What _kind_ of shape? And what's the easiest one I could form? A ball? I snicker. Jesus… I'm not going to be a loser and do that.

A plate? Yeah, I'll go with that. And maybe even toss in a Coffee mug. Haha…

Oh _god…_ No, not a coffee mug. That's too…_Spaz_.

A plate. There. That's final.

After molding a plate shape, I set it aside on the kitchen table and wash my hands. It's hard; the mold feels like glue on my fingers. Oh Lord, please don't let this clog the drain. After cleaning up, I glance at the clock on the microwave: still early in the afternoon. So what should I do now?

I pick up my cell phone and message Clyde: _u bc?_

I don't know why I always ask. I always expect the same answers: _yea, d8 w _(insert whore here), _grnded_ or _hng ovr_. Still, it gives them an impression that I've got the most boring life and I'm always open for them. Sometimes, I even feel out of place when I'm with the two. Token and Clyde go _way_ back, even before Grade School. They know each other more, they get into arguments more and they just click. I don't have a _best_ best friend. Stan and Kyle have always been attached to the hip that you can't help but wonder if they really are gay for each other just as Cartman says; Wendy and Bebe are two whores in a pod; even those foreign kids Christophe and Gregory. They think it's one of the _Badass_ attributes: flying solo. I call it solitude. Thus, being one reason why I have such a boring life. But it isn't much of a big deal.

I receive a message and chuckle because the reply is both expected and unexpected at the same time. _no. but tokens gvn me 'community servc'. cn u blv it?_

_he's a fag_

And I burst into hysterics as I receive a delayed reply with this only written: _fuck you craig._

For once, I've had Token speechless. And I don't even know why.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Can't imagine Craig in a jersey and dunking, but almost everything in my list of clubs. Ballroom would have been fun for him to be in, but this Craig isn't exactly that type. Plus I could imagine Clyde doing the Salsa much better than I could with Craig. And LOL at Kenny's innuendos. My friend and I thought of better ones while practicing Softball and laughed our asses off, enough to receive questioning stares from everyone. Anyway, I can assure you the following chapters would be much better than this one. **Reviews**are greatly appreciated. Don't worry; I'm not that type who would stop writing if I receive a little amount anyway. I don't live on praises.

And…LOLz ClydexToken? XD I kid, I kid.

And yes, I like the idea that winter will forever plague South Park, autumn for Middle Park and summer for North Park. I like autumn, and I didn't want Middle Park to be _extremely_ lucky, so I made them assholes.

[Wrote this for one week (Jesus, not continuously!) while listening to _Folie a Deux_.]

And could we all say this together? **F U C K B I O L O G Y ! ! !**


	6. Bother

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **South Park is not mine. It is created by Matt and Trey and is owned by Comedy Central. VIVA LA CONSTRUCTION PAPER. Oh, and all the famous brands and whatevers mentioned here. Too lazy again to list them all.

**Author's Notes: **Yeah, sorry for the late update. A lot of things are going on, what with the PAASCU that is to be taking place by February, and so all the teachers are stressing and giving projects with deadlines next week so February would be free of everything. PAASCU is this event when all the best works of students are to be displayed in this place, every class will be observed, et cetera. Plus, the Fair is sometime in Feb as well, so all the clubs are preparing. I suggested that my club would dress as beatniks with the bongos and everything, and we're going to recite lyrics of a song poetically and beatnik-y. Like: "Oh baby, baby… I want you… to know…" XD Our moderator approved it. I got the idea from a book launch performance. It was the same thing, but without the beatnik costumes. It was funny.

Anyway, I tried my best to finish this _long_ chapter about Craig's week. I even lost inspiration somewhere in the middle, and I'm not satisfied with most parts, but I _really_ wanted to update soon for all of you. I even do home works during Lunch Time at school so I have a free night. I don't procrastinate anymore, which is great. My New Year's Resolution. Haha.

I apologize if this chapter isn't good. Please inform me of your views on this particular chapter. I could edit it before starting on the next chapter (Which I still have no idea how it would go)! Chapter Six might be much later than this chapter since January and February schedule is hectic and busy. Again, I'll try my best to post the next chapter before March. :)

I would also like to thank this particular reviewer that suggested a scene for me to put in. I'll do my best to add that in later chapters. Thanks!

* * *

**Chapter Six: Bother  
**

I went to Token's. Since Clyde was just doing _community service_—which was actually doing Token's chores—and Token was busy checking their project and at the same time making sure Clyde didn't _mess up_ in cleaning, I decided to visit and probably help Clyde with his punishment. I didn't; I just watched his misery in slight amusement. I felt bad for him though—Token's house is massive. And as they always say: The bigger the house you can mess up, the bigger the mess to clean. Clyde asked me who exactly said that, and I answered '_Rich people. To their maids._' I pointed at him as I stated the latter and he cursed at me.

I've always wondered why rich bastards have to have big homes to live in when it's more than enough for them. Or maybe it just comes in a package. Like '_Oh jesus, I'm rich so I should buy that hot tub I saw at that store in the mall and other expensive crap and I should buy this mansion for me and put all my shit there and I don't care if I get lost in that big ass castle of mine cause every room will have everything that's necessary and I'm gonna quit my job cause I'm rich and all and I get to eat Turkey everyday and all that shit and hire hoes to keep me company and pay them lots so I could get lots and if I get bankrupt and lose everything I'm just gonna go kill myself cause there's nothing else to live for blah blah blah_'. Thank god Token's family isn't like that. Or perhaps I'm overstating. But there's at least _some_ truth in what I said.

It's no lie that I like Token's home. Who doesn't? It has _everything_ a South Park kid would ever want. A game sphere, an Xbox, a wii, a PS, PS2, PS3 and other consoles that I haven't heard of; computers and laptops of different brands in every room; other toys that make it seem like he bought the whole of Toys'R'Us nationwide; and different kinds of rooms everywhere. It's like his house came out of a Sims game.

And I'm not a fag to have a knowledge about style and shit, but I like how every room has a different kind of theme: Asian, retro, Techno and whatnot.

Clyde and I always beg Token to hang out at his place, but he always turns us down. _I don't get why he has to be so selfish_, Clyde had said once. But I somehow get the reason: he didn't want people to be his friend because he's wealthy and fawn over all his possessions and not him. And I'm positive Token knows that Clyde and I like him for who he is. Same goes for Stan and those guys. Except Cartman perhaps. But still, you know.

Token gave me the freedom to roam around his home, provided that I don't mess his parents' and his room, and the rooms Clyde already fixed. He didn't want to keep Clyde as his slave for long. I asked about the possibility of me breaking or misplacing something that would take him ages to find again, and he said that he doesn't care and he could always buy another one of whatever that may be if it's _really_ important. He is fully aware of how broke I am right now and didn't want to burden me any further. Token's really a nice guy—just doesn't care enough about most things.

I listened to one of his iPods, leafed through some comic books, checked out his games, got food from his fridge, and I even did a self-photoshoot with his camera. Oh, he'll be surprised by all the pictures of me invading the memory space. And mind you, I'm not that vain a person. I'm just hell bored, and my face is gorgeous.

After I checked all the rooms, I think, I got lost. It took me an hour or so to find my way back. It was about 6 in the evening and Clyde had done all Token's chores right before Token's parents came back from work, and Clyde and I stayed over for dinner. Clyde had to leave after that, but I stayed and played games with Token. He asked me what I did the whole day and I told him about my ride to Middle Park and back, the project making and the picture taking. He didn't really care about my day except the part about my self-photoshoot and said that he'll check it out in his computer and maybe send it all to _Depressed Kids Society_. I flipped him off.

I went home sometime around 9 and slept. The next day was Sunday and _no hell way_ was I going to attend Sunday Mass. Our family didn't really respect that ritual, so it's pretty obvious where we would all land. Not like you didn't figure that out yet. I don't need to know stories about Jesus Christ—I'm not an avid non-fiction fan. Plus, wouldn't that be invading his personal space? Having numerous write about his life from when he was still in Mary's womb down to when that bastard Pilot nailed him to a cross? If I wanted to hear about his life, I would go up to him and ask him myself, and I would be precise. Meaning that I wouldn't ask him '_Hey Jesus, tell me a random story about you_', but '_Hey Jesus, tell me about a time when you were almost a victim of pedophilia_' or something like that. I want _interesting_ stories. Not about some dumb round up of guys to be his fanboys and all that crap.

I spent the whole day playing _Tekken_, surfing the internet and sleeping. I hate Sundays the most because it's _family time_ for all my friends, and my family would rather spend time with pigs rather than each other. Not like we aren't spending time with pigs already. And since I don't want to spend all my savings, I didn't want to head to the arcade. I didn't want to head to the mall either because I absolutely detest window shopping. Makes me envious of Token, you know?

And so, I have mixed feelings when today came. I don't know whether to be relieved to actually have something to do, or be pissed off at another fucking school day with Spaz and all the other bitchfuckers that are the teachers.

But it turns out that it's just another boring day. There aren't any partner or group activities during the first two subjects, Clyde always has the talking stick during Recess—the only time when it's just the three of us hanging out in school—and I have no interest in hearing about what happened ages ago in History. Now it's Music class.

Truth be told, Music is one of my least favored subjects, despite my obsession with it. The reasons are mainly because I _don't_ sing and because I _don't_ play any instrument at all. The only times I like Music are when I listen to the girl's performances. I remember when they sang this medley of _Hot Stuff_ once. Women always have to be gifted with these kind of stuff. When it's us guys, it's really weird.

Some of the best ones in my class that are guys, in my opinion, are Stan, Kyle and, surprisingly, Cartman. Teacher thinks Gregory's great. I think he's hyperventilating and singing at the same time. And I bet Token's great too, but I wouldn't know—he isn't in my class. I think all black guys are great singers. That's how they always are in movies and TV shows.

What sucks is that we have to practice singing Christmas songs since it would be December a few weeks from now. And I hate singing Christmas carols the most.

Spaz just can't sing for his life. Period. I even slapped his mouth really hard that he fell over his chair and bit his lip accidentally when I got annoyed by his voice. The teacher scolded me, but didn't send me to the Counselor when I really _wanted_ to so I could skip this singing shit. She probably knew I needed an excuse and so she made me stay. That bitch.

What seems to be the longest hour an a half of my life ends with the Lunch Bell and my sigh of relief. I go to the Lunch Room with Stan, Kyle and Cartman where we meet Kenny, Clyde and Token already seated at our table. We take our usual seats and Token waves a CD at my face, together with an envelope thick with what I believe are my pictures from Saturday. They take a look at some of my pictures and laugh their asses off. I smirk and flip them off.

"Oh jesus, Craig!" Kenny says in between breaths. "Your facial expressions…are _priceless_!"

The stock gets handed over to me and I stare at my silly faces. I told them that it was done out of boredom and that it was actually kind of fun. I informed them that I've never owned a camera before, so I made most of the opportunity. Then Token offers to give me his black Sony Cybershot, the camera I used, as an early Christmas present. The whole table erupts in approval, as if they were _Craig_. Kenny and Clyde even ask for pictures of me in exchange for money or food or any of the necessities in my life. Even sex, Kenny says. I punch his face in annoyance, but said "Sure." to their offer (but not to the sex one, mind you).

Since Token gave me a soft copy, I let them do what they want with the stock of pictures that were printed. I told them payments would be tomorrow and the succeeding days until it satisfies the number of pictures they got.

"If these get in the School Paper without my knowing, I'll beat the hell out of _all_ of you until you piss blood and crap your insides, got that?" I say.

They consider this and erupt in laughter once again. I roll my eyes, flip them off and leave ahead of them to get my Biology book from my locker.

Nothing interesting again during Biology. It ticks me off that we have to have that hell of a subject everyday of our school life this year. It would have been nice if my teacher isn't that asshole, but _no_. Biology sucks, and that's that.

The following subject is Guidance. It's this weekly subject that I really despise. As if my counseling with Mr. Mackey isn't enough. All the teacher talks about is _emotions_ and _personality_ and all that faggotry. Not all the tests to know more about oneself is true and accurate. What if you take a test that measures your emotional quotient and something happened to you that day that made you feel like shit and you answer your exam based on your current situation? And when you receive your results you'd be _What the fuck? I'm not Emo! Why the hell is everything 'Very Low'?_

And so Guidance is a waste of our time.

Right now, we're talking about Trust and Loyalty to others and oneself. Another bullcrap to learn.

"To test your Trust capability, we have this activity I'm sure all of you are familiar with. As a demonstration, I'd like to call…" She trails off and looks around the silent class. I sigh because I just _know_ she's going to call—

"How about Craig and Tweek?"

…us.

I stand up, flip her off and stride to the front of the class, crossing my arms and glaring at the floor.

Spaz, having been surprised by his name being called, stands up and stumbles to the floor, screeching and twitching violently. The class chuckles as he makes his way messily to my side.

The teacher purses her lip and says to the class: "This is called _Catch Me_, wherein Partner A stands on a chair or a table or any elevated area while Partner B stays below him to catch him as Partner A drops himself backwards." I cringe and glare at Spaz. "You. Up."

He twitches and grabs the side of the table, shaking and staring at it with horror. "_Ngh_! I-I don't want t-to! It's too high! I'll fall even before I get up and then I'll break my neck and blood will shoot out of my nose and ears and _OH GOD_!!!" He shrieks.

I curl my hands into tight balls and scowl at him. "Well, we all would _like_ that to happen and _hopefully_ you die in an instant so _get up there_ or I'll break your neck _myself_!"

He squeaks and climbs up the table quickly, then stands up slowly to avoid falling over. I roll my eyes and stretch my hands forward, staring at him expectantly. He looks over to the teacher with mercy, but she keeps her watch on me and says: "Let's see if you're incompetent to Trust, Craig."

I flip her off and stare back at Spaz. He glances down at me with hesitation and I smirk. "Don't worry, Blondie; I'll _catch_ you." The class snickers and Spaz gulps. He looks forward, stretches his arms sideward, ready to fall. And I furrow my eyebrows in bewilderment. He fucking _knows_ what I would do to him, and yet he stays there, ready for me to '_catch_' him. He should have saved himself and pleaded to the teacher for him _not_ to do it because I'm _Craig_ and he's the _Spaz_.

I humph and wait. I hear him sigh and he starts to collapse backwards to me. I bite my lip and jump backwards quickly, watching him hit the floor with a loud thud head first. He groans and stays lying there. The teacher screams and heads towards Spaz, checking his state.

"He's lost consciousness!" The teacher says.

The class laughs and I stay standing in my spot, staring at the lifeless body on the floor.

"Someone get him to the Nurse's office!" She looks around and calls a random name. "Token!"

Token furrows his eyebrows as the class turns towards him. He thinks for a moment, sighs and accepts. The class watches Token silently as he carries him and walks out the door.

The teacher looks at me with a disapproving look, shakes her head and tells me to go sit back down. I do so in silence, ignoring everyone's amused stares.

"All right, uhm…can someone else show how to do it correctly?" The teacher asks.

Kenny shoots his arm up in eagerness. The teacher nods at him and he stands up, grabs Butter's hand and heads to the front of the class.

I rest the side of my face on my left palm as I watch Butters climb to the top of the teacher's desk glancing at Kenny. Kenny gives him a reassuring look and outstretches his arms. Butters takes a deep breath, lifts his arms sideward and falls backwards. For me, it happens all too quickly as Ken catches Butters and steps his right foot rearward to support the weight. Butters flutters his eyes open and looks up at Kenny. Kenny grins widely and says: "Looks like you can count on me to catch you when you're falling, babe." He winks as Butters tosses his head sideward in confusion.

The teacher applauds them, and so does the rest of the class. I glance towards the teacher and catch her staring at me. I avert my eyes after flipping her off.

**~.::.~**

"It's just like carrying a basketful of laundry," I hear Token say.

I turn around and spot Token and Clyde heading towards my direction, having a conversation.

"That light?" Clyde questions, raising an eyebrow. Token nods.

As they reach me, Clyde says: "Hey Craig, words of advice?"

I look at Token and think. "Burn your shirt."

Token rolls his eyes and Clyde laughs.

"Do you want to claim your camera now, Craig?" Token asks.

"What? Without wrapping paper and a greeting card? _Come on_, Token. It's a gift. Be more Christmassy." I chuckle.

"What about me, Token?" Clyde pouts. "No gift for your _super best friend in the world_?!"

"Jesus Christ, Clyde!" Token yells, covering Clyde's face with the palm of his hand.

"_Cmn, Tkn!_" Clyde muffled. I curve my lips upward an amusement.

"I'm going to go on ahead," I tell them. "See you tomorrow."

"Bye," the two say in unison, then proceeds with their small quarrel.

I arrive home in about 15 minutes and I stare at the parked Honda Civic outside our driveway. Definitely not ours, unless Dad bought a new one. I swing open our front door and find a woman in her early 30's seated on our couch. She stares at me and stands. "You must be Ruby's older brother."

I furrow my eyebrows. "If this is something about a charity drive…"

"Oh no! I'm Marie's mother. Marie is Ruby's friend. She asked if she could stay over at our place while your parents are gone. She also mentioned that you were staying at your friends, so she really needed to stay at our home." She tosses her head to the side and asks: "She didn't tell you?"

I furrow my eyebrow and shrug. I head towards the kitchen and check my IP project. Still a bit soft, but dry patches are evident here and there. I walk back to the living room and yell: "Ruby! Hurry the hell up!"

I hear hurrying footsteps and soon, my eyes fall upon a red head with her luggage, and a brown haired girl right behind her. She looks at me with a scowl. I sneer. "Jesus Christ, Ruby, could have told me you're gonna stay there the _whole_ week!"

She sticks her tongue out and hands her bag to Rie's mom.

"Let's go girls," she says to the both of them, glancing worriedly towards me. Yeah, I get bad first impressions when it comes to adults.

Ruby spins around and smiles innocently. "Bye, Craig!"

"Yeah, bye shrimp," I say, tousling her pigtailed hair, flipping her off where that old woman won't be able to see. She returns the gesture, and leaves.

I sigh and bury my hands in my Hoddie pockets. Now I have to suffer in the silence of my home. Great.

Ruby's…a bitch. We like to torture each other, just like other siblings with huge age gaps. Nevertheless, we engage in conversations, rant and rave, and talk about our parents—yep, just like ordinary siblings. Only that happens just rarely. We've got our own lives to deal with. She doesn't know much about me, and I have no idea what goes on in her girly life. _Not so much_ like ordinary siblings.

If I would know any better, I'd say Dad favors her more than he does with me. And mom just hates both of us equally. My guess is because of the hair. I don't know why—it's the only similarity Ruby and Dad share. And usually, with parents like mine, they'd favor people with at least one similar trait as them. And this leads me to an unsolved puzzle in my life: Why do I have black hair?

I get this inkling that mom used to be black-haired, but dyed her hair because of some reason. I even did the Punnett Square just to prove this presumption. It would be entirely impossible for me to have black hair if mom's a natural blondie. This doesn't even pass as a case for Multiple Alleles! (This lesson I listened to, out of curiosity for said mystery)

Well, whatever. I'm thinking random things again.

I drop myself on my bed with the unmade sheets and reminisce on this day that is ending. And I can't help but wonder why Spaz dropped himself backwards.

**~.::.~**

Tuesday.

Another boring day that I don't care to relate. Oh, but I should mention how annoyed I was this morning when I spotted Spaz. Looks like he hasn't died yet. Darn. All he got for treatment was a bandage around his forehead. I punched him in the gut because of that.

_Patience, Craig. Good things come to those who wait. _

Great way to start this uninteresting day. And as I said, I won't narrate it at all.

Except Arts. And this is how it goes:

The teacher begins talking shit about Self-Portraits and how they are very unreliable sources when you are to research on how the artist looked like. She goes on about how the artist could be conceited and paint him or herself beautifully, when in truth, that one is ugly. And so, she says, we must have other people who will _honestly_ paint ourselves. She tells us to pick our partners (It's a given who I'm stuck with) and to choose who would be partner A and partner B.

"You're B, Bitch," I tell Spaz, and he flinches. Then I frown when I tell myself '_You're A, asshole_.' "I'm A for awesome," I answer back audibly.

"All right, Partner A, claim your canvases here."

The canvas is small, almost the size of a ¼ Illustration board. Once I get back to my seat, the teacher continues: "Partner A, you have to sketch Partner B." I cringe and glare at Spaz. He twitches and stutters. We face our seats together and I cross my legs to serve as support for my canvas.

"Maybe when I'm done with it, you'll finally realize you look like shit," I tell the Spaz in a husky whisper.

"Partner B, you must maintain good posture and avoid moving around so Partner A wouldn't have a hard time sketching you." The teacher says, and I roll my eyes. "That's entirely impossible when it's Spaz," I comment.

"Partner A, you must get all the features right. Do as I say: move B's head around until you get the side you want to sketch."

I lean forward and, with my pencil, lift his head up so we're almost of eye level. He twitches and I seethe: "Don't fucking move."

"Make sure the hair is neat and isn't covering B's face."

Again, with the pencil end I fix his messy hair, moving it to the sides and—_sheesh_, his eyes bring shame to Pandas all around the world!

"And now, start sketching! Make sure to get all his features right. The shape of the face, the hair, the size of the eyes, the shape of the nose, the lips…"

I grunt and start drawing. I smirk as I draw random lines and zigzags for his crap hair. It's just too messed up to be drawn correctly. I'm not that much of an artist, and if this turns our hideous, then I have outdone myself.

I scratch the back of my neck and stare at Spaz's face. Eyes…

I draw two big circles.

"Very funny, Craig," I hear from behind me. I look and see Ms. Arts picking up an eraser from her pocket. "Do this activity seriously, Tucker." She hands me the pink rubber and erase the circles I have drawn earlier.

"Concentrate: Look at his eyes and copy it right," she tells me. "Oh, and don't include the dressing around his head." I roll my eyes and secretly flip her off. I stare at Spaz and he starts twitching and shrieking.

"Hold still! Goddamnit, Spaz!" I grab his chin and hold it in place. His eyes are screwed shut to avoid '_the evil look in my eyes_' as Stan puts it. "Open your eyes," I demand.

He slowly flutters it open and stares back at me trembling. His eyes are wide, no doubt about that. There are dark circles around his them too. And his pupils are slightly smaller than normal. And brown…

Coffee colored. When you add the cream. Either that's by coincidence or fate I don't care to question. I'd like to think that he drinks too much that it started affecting his eye color. I wonder if I cut him open, would he bleed coffee instead of crimson? That's another _Freak_ factor I would like to know. But I find it weird: Blonds usually have blue eyes right? Take Kenny and Butters. Spaz's eyes are rather unique for his '_kind_'… And rather smooth looking. Oh, no—his eyes are just watery.

I personally don't like coffee, unless I add a spoonful of creamer and sugar to the cup. Coffee's best sweet for me. That's why I don't mind being offered a cup—just remember to give me a jar of creamer and sugar! Even by staring at Spaz's eyes make me crave for a saccharine cup.

Spaz's nose is quite short in length and isn't at all sharp, hook-like nor wide. It's as small as a nose could possibly be and closely resembles that of an 8-year-old—as if it never developed since we fought. The tip is actually rosy, due to the cold perhaps. Just by staring at it makes you feel like playing '_Got your Nose_', but knowing Spaz, I wouldn't want my eardrums to explode. He's even more naïve than Butters or Pip.

My eyes fall upon his lips now, trembling in either fright or normally. Soft pink lips he parts slightly, bites, purse and lick. I furrow my eyebrows in annoyance and tell him to '_make up your mind_'. He blinks in confusion and stops playing with his lips, making them seem like a pout. I grunt and draw my observations. It takes me a while to have them perfect, much to my aggravation. As I finish, I draw two lines for his neck, then head back to his hair. I make the zigzags neater. Satisfied, I hold it up and marvel at it.

How _ugly_.

"I did it." I say smiling. "It looks so much like you. Like shit." I snicker as he downcasts his eyes. I sense a presence behind me, and I glace at whoever is there watching me and find my teacher looking thoughtfully at my work. "On the contrary, Craig Tucker, you've done a job well done. Marvelous portrait." She pats my shoulder and I stare at her back as she walks away in puzzle. Then I look back at Spaz, grin growing wider and I yell in triumph: "AHA! IT _DOES_ LOOK LIKE SHIT!" I throw fits of laughter. "YOU HIDEOUS THING! I'M SO FUCKING _AMAZING_!" I don't even mind my classmates' questions as to what the _hell_ is gone wrong in my head, nor the teacher's scolds nor Spaz's twitches and violent shaking in his seat. This is, by far, the _best_ partner activity I have with Spaz. And I feel _oh so great_.

I didn't even flip the teacher off when I got sent to the Counselor. At least, I _think_ I didn't. When I got there, it's the usual question and answer portion with the first infamous question to be: _Did you flip a teacher off again_? I don't know exactly, and I tell them this. Whenever the answer to question 1 is besides _yes_, he would ask for the reason why I'm here. I tell him vaguely about Arts, but make it a point to not make it seem like I'm hiding other things. I hate being questioned _further_ about what took place. He then goes on with his sermon related to my so-called _fault_ and why I should never do that again. Most of the time, I pretend to listen. No, actually, I pretend to listen all the time. And then he asks me if I understand, and I say _yes_, and after that he would tell me to leave and I would flip him off as I do.

But he didn't ask me to leave.

"So, Craig, how are things going with Tweek?" he asks, entwining his fingers together and placing them on his crossed legs.

I cross my arms and stare at him skeptically. "Well, what does it look like to you?"

He fans the air with his right hand as he says: "Don't worry, mmkay. The best things come to those who wait."

I furrow my eyebrows at this, mostly because I have said the not-so-exact line this morning when I saw Spaz. Not-so-exact because I have described the _things_ as _good_, and Mackey described the _things_ as _best_. But, I know, whatever we think that those _things_ will be, it's undoubtedly the opposite of each other.

"Best for _who_ exactly are these _things_ you speak of?" I ask.

"You, obviously, mmkay."

I sneer and retort: "I'm not exactly a patient guy."

"You aren't exactly a truthful one either."

I furrow my eyebrows. What made him say _that_? For his information, I _flip _my teachers _off _when they irritate me, I _hit _people when they annoy me so much, I _force _my sister out of something so _I _could us it and the list could go on and on. All right, so maybe I _am_ sort of tolerant, but only to the guys I always hang out with and not much to everybody else. For one, I've got close friends that don't spend time with me often, and I still ask them if they could. Also, I have lunch with Stan and those guys. Whoever sees their posse with mine are sure to wonder at how we're able to put up with fatass Cartman, Kyle's bitchiness, Kenny's NC-17 talk and Stan's pussiness. But Mackey couldn't possibly know this—unless he's speaking of the latter reason. Unless it's about Spaz. If _patient_ in Mackey's dictionary means _beating the shit out of annoying freaks_ (and the aforementioned things I have done that proves I'm not at all lenient), then I'm proud to say I _am_ patient.

"Sure, whatever you say fathead," I tell him, standing up to signify that I have received enough lecture from him.

"Mmkay, Craig, you could leave," he tells me. I flip him off and walk out the always _always_ I would be in a foul mood afterwards. As if the Office is a black hole that sucks away your exhilaration, leaving you as an empty shell of negativism. I hate that feeling. And I most especially hate it when he says things that make you think. As if I don't get much of that everyday.

Well, screw this. I'm eating my lunch.

**~.::.~**

Wednesday isn't any better than the previous days. To me, I regard my school days as one whole season of _Survivor_, and the prize I receive would be me graduating from the grade level _and_ Summer (if you could call it that). And after 2 whole months comes the next season—shittier than before. How to get eliminated? Get expelled.

Now, there's what could be the most difficult challenge I must face and pass. And that is to survive being with Twitchy for all my school days. And every teacher is in on making me lose. But that won't come easy—I've been over-all champion of my own (version of the) game. I have my ways.

They should meet my close friend the Sandman. Because of him, I see and think less of Spaz (but in exchange, I dream of the extraordinary). But partner works are a different case. Sometimes I get to avoid much contact with him, and sometimes I have no choice but to converse or _touch_ him.

The question is: Am I winning or losing?

"Are you listening to me, Craig?"

I glare towards my History teacher and then look down at the mountain of supplies I cradle on my arms. "Yeah."

"All right. The supplies closet is at the back of the Gym."

I groan and leave the classroom. This History teacher likes poking fun at me and I have no idea why. At least, in my opinion, she does. She always orders me to do this and that. She's just like that Biology teacher—girl version. Might as well arrange a wedding for these two and they would live their happy lives together ridiculing Craig Tucker. Oh god.

And what's she thinking—sending me to the Supplies Closet at _the back of the gym_? Nobody goes there. It's practically a danger magnet since behind the school it's the South Park Forest already. A rusting fence is what separates the school from the forest, but there is still a high possibility that _whatever's in there_ would destroy the fence and enter our school grounds. We've been waiting for that since we saw a glimpse of a creature hiding amongst the trees when we were playing a game of tag back in 5th grade.

The supplies closet is the only supplies closet big enough to hold all the Gymnasium things, plus random stuff teachers from years back left there—which is precisely why Ms. History has things to be returned there. No one, not even teachers, dare to travel to that spot except for this crazy janitor who claims he fought during the war against the Germans and therefore, he says, he isn't afraid of petty creatures. He also happens to despise waiting, and since History extended for about 10 or 15 minutes, the janitor, who was supposed to return the materials for the teacher, wasn't outside the room anymore. And since she _really_ likes me, she asked me to do it.

I arrive at the back of the Gym and swing the closet doors open quickly. I drop the things inside, close the doors and leave as swift as possible. I breathe out as I reach the front of the Gym and shove my hand inside my Hoodie pockets for a piece of paper. It's yellow with the title _Borrower's Slip_ on the top. I have to hand this to the janitor guy who is…

Great. I have no fucking idea where the guy is.

Often, the first guess is the right guess. And so I enter the Gym. It's predictable anyway that he would be inside knowing that his position is the Janitor or Helper of the Gym. I scan the room for an old man. Not here—just Karatedo and Taekwondo members at opposite sides of the gym. I grunt and stare at the staircase leading up to the second floor—where the big Gym stuff are stored. I rise up the flight of steps and look around the second floor. I look around and wonder curiously at the way everything is arranged. The objects used for Track and Field encircle everything else which are placed at the center. I shrug and spot the janitor seated on a chair, arms crossed, legs spread wide open and head hanging low. I guess he's sleeping. I step forward to approach him but freeze in place as I hear a sigh from the other end of the floor. My head spins around and I stare upon a blond on his left knee, tying the shoelaces on his right shoe. I stare at him long enough to recognize the messy hair, the alabaster skin, and the slight shaking and discreet twitches. I scowl for a moment then soften my look. I step back a little to hide by the doorway and watch him rise to both his feet. He smoothens his creased South Park High PE shirt and looks at the janitor with an irresolute face. He twitches and shrieks involuntarily, waking the old man with a jolt. He grabs what I think is a stopwatch and yelled the GO signal. I look at Spaz and he begins running, leaping over the hurdles arranged in different distances from each other. And I finally realize that this is place is Spaz's own track oval. And I _must_ admit: he's quite a fast runner. Must be the caffeine intake that doubles his performance.

I watch him for a few more seconds then emerge from the shadows to approach the old janitor. He looks at me with an inquisitive look and I show him the yellow paper. He stretches his arms toward me and I place it on his palm. I glance back at the Spaz running towards our direction and I sat down on the floor beside the janitor. Spaz keeps running with full concentration—this I know because he doesn't notice me watching. I furrow my eyebrows as I fathom what Spaz could be feeling at this very moment.

And I stifle a smile as I remember the same feeling I had when I was cycling towards Middle Park, the cool breeze blowing against my face and through my black hair. It's the feeling of _serenity_ inside me and _freedom_ all I want to be saved from.

This is Spaz's way of obtaining that.

"Poor kid, you know?"

I look at the old man and he continues: "Applied for Track and Field with a few other students a year or two his senior, and is constantly mocked and bullied. They didn't want to practice running with him. So I offered him this place to practice in during his club time. He isn't at all great at first, but then he started getting better and better until his Best Time is 5 minutes for 100 laps." He leans back toward his chair and breathes out. "This is his only escape from all the world's evil. I remember back when I was a soldier…" And then he continues on with his story, fake or real I don't care which.

I keep watching Spaz and, after 2 laps around, he looks at me, then does a double take with an anxious expression, and bumps on a hurdle, falling over with it. He groans and twitches violently, then gains courage to look at me. I stare at him for a few seconds, then stand up to leave. If Spaz and I are the same about this certain salvation we want to grasp, then he would, just like I would, want to be left in peace.

I walk home with an idle mind and nothing playing on my cassette tape of thoughts.

**~.::.~**

The next two days are very…odd. Not only have I been bothered by the fact that I compared myself with Spaz during that encounter last Wednesday, but I stopped sleeping during class hours. And yes, this is strange because I could if I have the will to, and today I just didn't _have_ that motivation. I still despise Spaz, but suddenly, I have this feeling of hesitation when I want to flip him off or even oppress him. And this really gets on my nerves because I'm starting to hate him _less_ by just a tiny bit. And that should _never_ happen because I _hate_ him and I _would_ for all my days until I'm of legal age to commit illegal acts and kill him off. Or at least save me the trouble and die even before that. It just _has_ to be that way. I _refuse_ to lose.

Clyde and the others have constantly asked me if I'm all right. I didn't know what to tell them. So I shrug every time. I don't know what made them notice, actually. My mind has been clouded with random thoughts that I frequently don't hear people call my name the first few times until that one would shout it or bang his fist on my table or hit me in any part of my body.

Seriously, I have no idea what's going on with me. I try punching my own self, but that doesn't seem to work either.

And what _confuses _me the _most_ is that I am staring down at the nervous blond, hands gripping tightly on his thermos and eyes shut tight. My right hand is curled into a fist and my left is clutching on the collar of his shirt. He just asked me a question, I think.

"Huh…?" I had said. I was deep in thought before that.

He had winced and repeated: "I n-need to s-s-see our Bi-Biology proje-ect." He had cleared his throat and twitched.

I had furrowed my eyebrows and stayed silent. And then I had questioned if it was a Friday today and he had nodded in reply. And I had said: "Not tonight. I've got club. And my parents and sis are coming home," And I had paused and contemplated. Then I had taken out a notebook from my locker, ripped a page out from it and wrote my home and cell phone number. I had handed it to him—not shoved—and he had taken it carefully. "Those are my numbers," I had told him. "Just contact me tomorrow when you're coming over." He had stared at it and nodded. And out of impulse, I had grabbed his shirt and shoved him against the lockers and had attempted to punch him.

And the puzzling part is… I couldn't do it. Like I'm frozen in this spot. I slowly lower my hand and let him go. I stare at him, then shake my head and leave him questioning me silently as I walk away.

Congratulations, I award this week as the weirdest week in my entire life thanks to Tw—Spaz.

Oh God.

Yep, weirdest week ever.

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **LOL 'Pilot'. It's _Pilate_, Craig. But of course you wouldn't know nor care about that, you bad catholic you.

Oh Lord, I did everything to finish this long ass chapter. I don't even know if it's good or not. It's unbalanced. I'm half satisfied and half dissatisfied with this. Please tell me your views! Gah…I apologize if this chapter isn't any good!

Plus the way I ended it…I'm not all right with it. But this is the best I could give you so… Oh, and I kept debating with myself if I would have Craig _almost_ call Tweek _Tweek_ and not _Spaz_. Sigh… I really planned the scenes even before I wrote this chapter, and I really _wanted_ it all to fit and blah blah blah…

Enough about my rants and raves. **Review** please. :D And again, I'm sorry. I PROMISE THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE MORE ORGANIZED AND UPDATED BEFORE MARCH. I'll try my best, really I will! -_Shoots self-._


	7. Empty Spaces and Wet Places

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I don't own the genius that is South Park, nor any of the mentioned places, channels and et cetera.

**Author's Notes: **The chapter title has nothing to do with the content on this part of the story. It sounds like a Dashboard Confessionals song, huh? Hehe. I mention the phrase just once and immediately fall in love with it. No, just kidding. I just wanted to use it as a title of something somewhere. And since the hardest part in writing is thinking up of Book and chapter titles, I decided to save myself the trouble and use it as the name of this chapter.

Oh, and _Color Me Prime_ is a parody of _Color Me Mine_. If you don't know what that store is, you can search it online. (Whoa, that rhymed.) And yes, I suck at parodying titles. And Jesus yes, I think _Harbucks_ is a brilliant parody of the ever-so-famous _Starbucks._

And I apologize for not posting before March. Just…so many things to do. I'm sorry~ DX Oh, and I'd like to thank all those who have been reading and reviewing my story. Hugs to all of you! You are my motivation in continuing _Blindfold_. So thanks you guys! :D

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Empty Spaces and Wet Places**

Ruby came by last night to check if our parents returned from wherever. If my guess is correct, she did so because that 30-something woman had nagged her into it. Otherwise, she wouldn't have barged in and _so_ rudely asked me if mom and dad are home yet. She wouldn't have come home at all. I shrugged and flipped her off. She rolled her eyes and went out the door. I figured she told that woman they haven't come home yet in her fake sweet-kid act. Now, I know where she gets _that_ from. The woman came in and gave me her home number, telling me to call if they come before 9 pm. I replied with a "Sure, whatever.", slid the paper underneath the phone and continued watching _Family Guy_. She left mumbling something about how rude teenagers are and how Marie won't ever grow up like them. Please, if someone hangs out with _my_ sister, no doubt that kid's the same bitch.

In fact, Mom and Dad _didn't_ come back. I had to check their bedroom to know and _god knows_ what is _in_ that bedroom. Now I do, and I'd rather not relate.

It was about 11 something in the morning when I remembered that Spaz is to come to check on the project. I groaned and laid down on the sofa waiting until this very moment. It's nearing 12 noon and still he hasn't come. If I stay like this any longer, I'm texting Clyde. Which reminds me, Spaz hasn't even called or messaged me if or when he's coming. Or perhaps he forgot. Or he lost the paper. Or he's too paranoid to tell me simply the time. What a freak.

_RING_

I lift my head and stare at the black phone on the table beside the couch. It rings once more. I sit up and reach for it, grumbling a "What?" on the mouth piece. I do this unintentionally. Basically, when people call either mom or dad, the two would always reply with a _what_ or some strange sound. And being a witless child back then, I would do the same thing, thinking it was the _right_ way to do it. I learned this wasn't true after a while, but I still did it until now. It's done on impulse, much like when you'd say "_Hello?_" as a response. I hear a shriek and a mutter of '_Oh God_'s and '_Jesus_'s and '_gah_'s, then a loud bang and other sounds I couldn't understand. I think he dropped the phone. Now I hear him breathing onto the receiver. He's mumbling, hesitant to say whatever he is to tell me. I grunt and yell a "What?" again, making him squeak. "C-Can I c-c-come—_ERG_!—now?"

I scowl and open my mouth to tell him the fact that I've been waiting for him for almost an hour now, but decide against it. It would just come out weird. Instead, I tell him: "Yeah, sure." I hear him gulp and stutter once again, trying to find the words to say next. "O—_JESUS—_kay…" he says finally. I roll my eyes and hang up. Right now, he must be screeching at the annoying beeping sounds the phone is making, signifying that I have just put the phone down. No wait, that's still in a few more seconds. Okay, now he's screaming his head off.

I turn the television on and begin flipping channels for an interesting show to watch as I wait for the freak show to come. Oh hey, there's that show about that black fat dude! Cool.

I awake from my thoughts to the sound of a knock on the door. It was soft and hesitant as though afraid to have the door fall over. I turn the TV off and walk towards the door. I swing it open and am greeted by a piercing yelp of surprise. I roll my eyes and look over his shoulder to eye the street. A green car turns around a corner and I glimpse upon a Harbucks bumper sticker.

I breathe out and spin around to head back to the kitchen. I hear him stumble inside and close the door carefully. I lean on the table staring at the project and poke it with my right index finger. It seems hard enough. Very rough and dry. And it lost its stink. Spaz gulps as he enters the room and stares at the project.

"Mmrph…" he sounds in uneasiness. "…plate? _ERG!—_I'm not saying that it's a bad idea though! Oh Jesus, I made it sound that way, didn't I? _GAH!_" I slap him hard.

"Shut up. It's the easiest thing that doesn't suck that much asshole," I reason. He nods and quietly asks: "Did y-you take p-p-pict-tures?"

Holy shit. I forgot the documentation. Looks like I'll be needing that camera from Token sooner than I've expected. I furrow my eyebrows and shake my head slowly. He twitches and bites his lip, holding his yelps of fear of asking me to make one more figure with that dough I still have stored in my refrigerator. I roll my eyes and tell him: "I don't really care if you ask me to make another one, you dickshit. It's not like I've got better things to do." I then frown. "What the fuck are we going to do with _that—_" I point to the plate. "—thing?"

He draws a jagged breathe and mumbles: "Erm—_gah!_—uh…th-there's this p-place right bes-side Ha-Harbucks…you pai-paint these—_GAH!_—ceramics and then y-you leave it with them so they could burn it, and after-er a f-few days, they're—they're safe to u-use." He covers his mouth and blushes a light pink. I raise an eyebrow and stare at him. You know, that isn't actually a bad idea.

"So what you're saying is we're going to paint that plate in that store you're talking about to not waste the effort and, at the same time, show how useful our project really is, right?" He gulps and nods discreetly. But I'd be caught dead with Spaz walking along the streets. So what do I do? Tell him to do it himself or myself? But I don't know where the place is, and chances are he'll drop it as soon as he walks out of my front door. And regardless of my going to create another one, I wouldn't want that going to waste _and_ it would actually defeat the purpose of going there.

"I'll do it," I tell him finally as I take hold of the plate. "Just tell me where it is."

"Uh…" He twiddles with his thermos. "Near Harbucks."

"Godfuckit, _where_ is Harbucks?"

"Near Stan's house…"

I furrowed my eyebrows and hit his arm with my free hand. "If you're going to be so fucking uncooperative, then lead the fucking way, shithole!"

"_Erg!_" Spaz says with a twitch.

And after getting the ceramic from the table, we head out. Let the Lord have mercy on me _just this once_ and let people _not_ see that we're walking together on the sidewalks.

Hell, who am I kidding? This is South Park on a Saturday! A time when you're free to wake up whenever you want, to play games with friends, to head to the mall for shopping sprees and so on. A time when almost _anybody_ could catch a peculiar sight of Craig and the Spaz, though not walking side by side, making their way through the crowd and heading towards the same direction, Craig not even bothering to beat the hell out of the Spaz nor storm off to avoid him. _Peculiar_ isn't even the right term to describe it! If it wasn't for my pride, I wouldn't even be in this mess.

If the Lord is still merciful for Craig Tucker, may He _please_ bless him with the miracle of spotting no one he knows and vice versa until he finishes whatever he is to do and after he and the worst creature in the world part ways.

Luckily, we reach a small shop called _Color Me Prime_. I swing open the door and flip the chimes off when they sound as I enter. The place isn't at all inviting. Helter-skelter to be exact. It looks more of a broom's closet than a shop of ceramics. It's also deserted—obviously, seeing all this. A man arises from behind the counter and, with a cough, asks for our business.

Who salesperson asks a customer what he's doing in his shop so rudely? I sense Spaz panicking in fear. I casually reply: "This is a shop right? One that offers ceramic painting, right? Well,"—I step forward and hold our project up for him to see—"I'm a paying customer. But I'm not going to buy any of your ceramics. I'm here to paint this one right here using your special paint or whatever and for you to do your magic to make this ready to use. Yeah?"

He sneers at me and I flip him off. "All right, but with the same price," he tells me. I shrug and ask how much it costs. When he answers, I shoot a glare at Spaz. He better have money for this because I'm not paying. He squeaks and buries his hand down his shorts pocket and brings out crumpled bills. I turn away and fix my look at the guy and he gestures towards bottles _somehow_ neatly lined up on a table with sample results when you use each paint. Spaz and I head towards the table and stare at all the samples.

"How do you want to design it?" I try asking, irritation evident in my voice.

"GAH!" He screams with a matching twitch. "I-I—_ERG!_—uh…I dunno…—_JESUS!_—t-too mu-mu-much preeeeessssssure…!" He says that last word through his clenched teeth. I raise my eyebrows and grimace. Typical. Never accommodating.

He gulps and murmurs: "How do you want to design it?"

I blink at him for a few times and answer: "I don't know."

A few seconds of awkward silence. It was, to my surprise, Spaz who breaks it. "Does it even matter?" And I stifle a chuckle realizing how right he is and almost choke when I reply: "No."

He does a double take—no wait, that was just a nervous glance with a twitch—and scratches the body of his thermos. Spaz as he may be, this freak's observant.

"Here boys," we hear from behind us, making Spaz screech in surprise. I look and find the old man clutching onto a purple clear book. "Designs if you need 'em," he continues, staring at Spaz with a quizzical look.

I grab the portfolio and head over to an empty workspace. I take a seat and begin scanning through it. It's full of pictures of plates, mugs, figurines and whatnot painted and designed in different ways. I catch sight of a simple template of brown cow spots on a white background. Spaz whimpers. "You're right," I say, not even bothering to know what _his_ reason is for sniffling. "Reminds me of school too much."

Then there's a picture of a bowl painted in Alice Blue and a rainbow arching diagonally across it. I hear him cry an "Oh jesus!" and I nod. "Yeah, too gay."

Now, a picture with sweets and cakes painted on it. "Ew," I say before flipping the page.

And it goes the same for everything else. Either the template is too complicated, too uninteresting, too gay or just not fitting into our liking. I close the clear book and shrug. "Well, that didn't help at all," I say, scratching the back of my neck. Spaz twitches and starts playing with the part that reveals and seals the opening on the lid. I hit the table in annoyance and he shrieks, grabbing the thermos before it falls to the ground. Small amounts of coffee splatter on the table—and that's when I receive an epiphany.

"Holy shit," I say as I rise from my chair, take hold of the plate and head towards the table with the paint bottles. I begin grabbing random containers and squeezing paint out from each one of them in different places on the plate. As I finish, I head back to the workspace and swivel the ceramic around, scattering the paint in different directions. Content at the result, I lift the hairdryer on the table and blow-dry the wet paint. The noise makes Spaz scream and cover his ears, but I ignore him. And after a few seconds, I turn the hairdryer off and examine the plate for empty spaces and wet places.

"All right," I say after discovering no such areas. "So what do we do next?"

Spaz twitches and points a shaky finger at the old man by the counter flipping pages of a Porn magazine.

"Hey," I call. "Here. Do your thing." I thump on the table twice.

He grumbles and heads over to our table. He stares at our project for a few seconds before telling us: "Three days. Pay up." He stretches out his palm. Spaz takes out the crumpled bills and hands it over to the guy who snatches it and stomps away to the register.

"Oh Jesus!" Spaz screams, then twitches wildly.

"Dickwad," I say, referring to the old vendor. But Spaz takes it the wrong way and shuts up, pulling his hair in apprehension. Well, at least he shut up.

"If you kids are done here, I suggest you leave," The asshole states, grabbing the plate from our table and pointing towards the door. I sneer at him and flip him off before exiting the shop with Spaz.

"What's up _his_ vagina?" I grouse. Spaz shrugs—no, it's a twitch—and takes a drink from his thermos.

"No wonder the guy's got no customers," I continue, burying my hands in my coat pockets. "And the place's fucked up. Jesus—I bet we're his first in three years."

"Mgrphmphbdrgmphm…"

I blink. "Huh?"

"_GAH!_" He screams, pulling his shirt. "Nothing! _OH JESUS!_ I-I d-d-d-didn't s-say anyth-thing!"

Knowing my own self, I would have punched him and decided not to press the matter any further. But something weird happens. I grab his arm and seethe: "What is it?"

"Uh…uh…" He gulps. "I s-said that maybe there isn't a-anything left for him to do. Since he's…old."

I stare at him for a few seconds and then I release him. "Well, that's stupid."

"_ERG!_ …Sorry."

"Dumbass," I scowl before I start walking away. "I didn't mean you."

And I'm guessing he's been dumbfounded by that comment because I don't hear his clumsy footsteps tagging behind me for a few moments. And when I glance to check, I find him just starting to walk briskly towards my direction. After a few minutes, we come upon the famous _Harbucks_. Spaz takes hold of the door handle but doesn't enter. He looks at me and asks: "D-do you want to come inside?"

I scoff. "Just because I did the project with you and actually _talked_ to you doesn't mean I'm going to start hanging out with you, you fucking Spaz." I grab his collar. "I still hate you and that doesn't change a fucking thing, you got that? I could _punch_ you in the face right now to prove my point."

He screws his eyes shut in preparation for the sharp pain he will be feeling in a matter of seconds. I grunt and let him go. "But I'm not going to." He opens his eyes but avoids looking at me. "You know why?" I ask. "Because your dad's staring."

And with that, I take off, leaving the Spaz to absorb what I had just said.

**~.::.~**

The eyes are windows to the soul. And the way Spaz's dad looked at us seemed very familiar. And I knew right away where I've seen that look before. It surprised me, actually, that I would find those eyes on anyone else besides my parents. Blank and weary, they are. Not even Kenny's mom has it—hers still gains a bit of emotion, negative or not. And so I didn't punch Spaz. I could have, and I should have, and I would have, but I didn't. His dad wouldn't have cared either way. That's what I saw in his face. '_Oh look. My kid's going to get his ass kicked by some thug. Oh well,_' was what he was thinking—I just know it.

And that annoys me. Not because the guy didn't care, but because he was _like_ my parents. And that's strike two for the '_Craig and Spaz Similarity Game_.' Only this isn't a very fun game at all.

_need tht cam sunr thn xpctd_, I read before hitting send. I breathe out and stare at my visible winter breath as it fades away until I see it no more.

A reply: _sure. monday. gift wrapped with a red bow and a matching christmas card._

I don't think I could wait Monday. Nothing happens on Sundays. _not mon. tom. idc if its nt gft wrppd. tnx. _

_sure_

I bury my phone back down my jeans pocket and continue on walking. But as I near the house, I pause at the sight of an old blue Nissan parked in front of it. And then I remember: I have parents. It's such a shame though; I would have liked living without both of them home. And Ruby. I didn't even expect this week to go by this fast.

I breathe out, pushing my lower lip outward to direct the air up and blow stray locks of hair away from my face. I continue walking and—holy shit…the project!

I start to run towards the front door, swing it open and race towards the kitchen. I immediately check the fridge and am relieved to find the dough still there untouched and moldable. But I don't think it's safe to do the other figure here. And if I put this off for tomorrow, no doubt she'll get curious about it and perhaps even taste to check if it's some sort of salad drowned in too much dressing. I'm not saying that I mind, no. But if she does something to this…well, I wouldn't really mind going back to Middle Park either.

But being the lazy bastard I am, I decide to do the next figure now.

_dude i need 2 g thr nw. moms hir. cn I d th prj thr?_

I receive the next message later than it should have been. Most probably he thought about it. But thank God I got this answer: _fine_

And so I grab the bowl and head towards the door. But before leaving, I decide to call up that lady and inform her of mom's return. I lift the Phone up to retrieve the calling card hidden and dial the numbers. It takes only one ring before she picks it up.

"Hello?" I hear from the other end.

"Yeah, this is Ruby's brother. Just called to say mom's here. So if you don't mind, drive her home. Bye," and with that, I hang up. I've always shunned the proper telephone communication etiquette.

I walk towards the door with the bowl again—

"Where are you going?"

I spin around and find my mom at the staircase. Her tone of voice fails at emitting suspicion and curiosity, if that _was_ what she was aiming. "Token's," I answer. "It's for a school project."

"You were going out without telling me?" Again, false anger.

I shrug at her and manage to mutter: "Like you care anyway."

And she must have heard me because, with a grunt, she turns around and escalates back to her room or wherever. I grunt back and go on my way to Token's.

It wasn't a really long walk. Before the corner that leads towards my house, you find Raisins, right? The whole stretch from that point is a separate part of South Park—like a village, only it's full of Restaurants and Bars. After walking along the street, the tavern gets classier and classier until you hit _Falcone's_, the most expensive and swanky pub where the rich and famous go for drinks and sell ecstasy. That would be the end point, and you'll soon find yourself gazing at Golden Gates: the well-off part of the neighborhood.

"Black residence," I say to the guard.

"What?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Black. I'm visiting Token Black at number 16," I respond. He mouths the word '_oh_' and pages them for confirmation of my stopover. I guess the worst person you'd hold a surprise visit for would be Token, since he'll know earlier than he should. The guy opens the gates and I enter, counting off the houses until I reach the one with the golden numbers _16_ screwed on the door. I ring the doorbell and am greeted by the Butler.

"Hi. Craig again," I tell him as if we had met each other numerous times.

"Master Tucker." He says bowing. "Follow me," he tells me after closing the door and offering to carry the bowl with the dough. We pass by different rooms until we reach what looks like the normal Dining Area. Token claims it to be the '_Experiment Room_'. Nice name. Take note of the sarcasm improperly voiced.

"What's your experiment anyway?" Token questions as I place old newspapers around the working area.

"Uh," I start, unsure of what this experiment is. "Something to do with…biomass."

I dig a handful of the almost hardening dough and slap it unto the plastic on the table. At least it would hold better. Now it's decision time.

I look around the room and my eyes lie upon a Christmas mug across the table, where Token is. All right, fine, a mug. It shouldn't be _that_ hard.

"What are you doing?" Token asks.

"Making a mug," I reply.

"…Dude."

I stop for a moment and raise my eyebrows at him.

"What the hell are you doing—making something that reminds you of the _Freak_?"

"Well, do you have anything _else_ in mind?" I question, careful not to cross my arms to avoid staining my shirt with the dough on my hands.

He shrugs. "I don't know. A figurine or something—"

"Dude, no. I'm no artist."

"Then do a ball or something."

"Pathetic, man."

"What did you do before?"

"A plate."

"…A plate. And you're calling a ball figurine pathetic?"

"It is!"

"Fine! How about a box?"

"A ceramic box?"

"The ones where you put your accessories in."

"Dude, that's so fucking gay."

"Then how about utensils?"

"A ceramic spoon?"

"Like soup spoons."

"What the hell are soup spoons?"

"The ones in restaurants when you order—"

"I don't know if you haven't noticed but I'm not as filthy rich as you are, Token."

"Well, _sorry_. At least I'm throwing in suggestions for you, oh Great One."

I sigh—which kind of sounded more of a grunt—and throw my head back, causing my aviator hat to fall down to the floor. I close my eyes and mumble: "Sorry."

I hear Token sigh. "It's all right, Craig. But—god, I give up. Just go do your mug thing. No matter how _Spaz_ that may be."

I nod and straighten my position, continuing where I left off. As I finish, I laugh at the lame-ass excuse of a mug and ask where I could wash my hands clean. He points to the sink at the other side of the room and _god_ how convenient is _that_?

The faucet has a sensor thing too! I didn't have to stain anything with the dough.

"Thanks a lot, Token," I say while scrubbing the mixture off my hands.

"No problem," he says as he packs the camera in a box. "Why didn't you do it in your room, though? Don't you have a lock and a key?"

I reply: "I do have a lock and key. It's just that my knob is the kind that you can stick a fork in the keyhole and it magically unlocks itself. It sucks, really. My room's open to unwanted visitors—a.k.a. Ruby."

"Or underpants gnomes," Token adds with a chuckle. I grimace. _Right. Sure._

He rests his chin on his balled up right fist and ponders. "Hmm. You know, I have spare locks."

I look over my shoulder to eye him with disbelief. "Spare _locks_? Do you have _everything_ in this house?"

He rolls his eyes. "The more locks, the safer we are from robbers. Duh." He stands and heads out of the room. He arrives a few minutes later with a small cardboard box right after I dry my hands with a towel.

He drops the box on the table and I peer at the contents. Locks of different sorts: number locks, bicycle locks, keycard locks, everything!

"All you have to do is pick one or two or even six of these babies and you 'install' them on your door once you get home," he tells me.

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Or I could just replace the knob, you know."

He shrugs. "Or that."

I pick up a normal silver knob still enclosed in its container. I open it up and check its keyhole.

"Great," I say, placing it back inside. "I'll take this one."

He hands me a black box with a picture of the Sony Cybershot on the top lid. I accept it with a wide grin. "Thanks a lot, Token! Maybe you should give me an iPod next."

He points a finger at me as he says: "Aha—I _told_ you that you need one. Saves you the trouble of having to stick your index fingers in your ears and hum a tune you heard over that radio of yours in your room while you shower."

"Hey, I happen to like that radio. And it's not like you're gonna give me an iPod anyway, am I right?" I say playfully punching his arm. He gives a shrug and says: "Christmas is coming so I _could _be a little more generous than usual."

"Token, you're a selfish asshole." I proclaim with a laugh. "You should have stopped after the word '_generous_'."

"Sure, Craig." He rolls his eyes. "You need a ride?" He glances towards the newly crafted mug on his table, then to the boxed camera and the doorknob, then to _bagless_ me. "Trust me—you'll need it." He picks up my hate from the floor and wears it on my head.

I smile and say, for the nth time: "Thanks a lot, Token."

**~.::.~**

The next day, I wake up to the noise of Ruby's knocking and shouting. "Craig! Goddamnit! Open up! We're going to Church! _Wake up!_ Shithole!"

I groan and rub my eyes. I was _so_ happy that I didn't have to wake up goddamn early and dress up in decent clothes to go to Church last Sunday that I forgot that I would _have_ to today now that my parents are here.

"_Craig!_" My sister bellows as she slams the door with her palm.

"All right, all right! Get that sand out of your vagina, Ruby!" I yell, pushing away my blanket in annoyance. I check my clock and find out that I have approximately 15 minutes to get ready. All right, 5 minutes to eat breakfast, about 3 minutes to wash up, 2 minutes to change into my clothes, 2 minutes to wait for everyone to be ready-ready, 3 minutes to drive to Church.

I groan and step inside my comfort room and wash my face. God, the water's cold. But what can you do? You live in South Park, you suffer the consequences.

I wipe my face dry with a towel and grab my Sunday clothes: A black suit, blue polo and a Red Racer necktie. I put them on with a sneer—I fucking hate fancy clothes. I wear my grey socks and slip my feet in my black fucking elevator shoes. God, I hate this kind of shoe. It feels like you're wearing high heeled shoes! (Not saying that I've _worn_ high heels.) The curve on the sole just disturbs me.

I sigh, tousling my hair, making it messier than usual. I look at my favorite aviator hat and remember that I can't wear it during Mass. So I smoothen my hair a bit.

When I'm done, I unlock my new door lock that I installed last night with dad's tools from the basement, step out and lock it again. I stuff my key down my pants pocket and head downstairs to the kitchen for—if Mom didn't cook or prepare anything—Fruit Loops. Heh, who cares if my clothes get soiled?

Inside, I find Ruby in her Olive green dress sitting down and playing with a red Nintendo DS.

"Where'd you get _that_?" I ask, eyebrows raised.

"It's Marie's. I borrowed it. Awesome games," She says as she rubs the bottom screen with the stylus.

I shrug and head towards the cabinets to pull out the Fruit Loops box and a bowl and a spoon. I'm tempted to tell her to have fun while it lasts because her best friend won't be giving that away for free, unlike _my_ best friend who does. I take out the Milk Carton and pour just the right amount in the bowl. And when I took my first bite, I noticed something.

"Where's mom and dad?" I question. "It's too quiet here…"

"They left." Ruby says simply.

"They what?"

"They were already ready and you weren't. So they took the car and left me here to wait for you. And we're walking so hurry up and finish eating or we'll be late."

Silence reigns. Suddenly, I didn't feel like finishing my cereal. I clear my throat. "Hey Ruby?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we _not_ go to Church?"

"Hmm. No, they'll kill us if they found out we didn't and they did because they need to _please the crowd_."

I put my cereal inside the refrigerator. And then I hear Ruby ask: "Craig? Why do our parents suck so much?"

And I think for a while before replying: "We're in South Park. Get used to it."

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **Listening to _The Cab_ while writing is not advisable. Please do not try that at home.

And I'M SO SORRY that it ended there. I just wanted to post it quick. It was supposed to end the next day (Monday) in School. Sigh… And I'm most disappointed with this one. I dunno, it's…I dunno. All the waiting and this is what I get to give you… I'm sorry! DX Tell me what you think about it! Thanks~


	8. The Boy and his Conceit

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: :**copypasteplz:

**Author's Notes: **I should just stop parodying. Seriously. -.- BIG FAIL.

And I apologize for the delayed chapter. I sacrificed for the Holy Week. (No Computer, no PS2, no Nintendo and et cetera.) But I managed to write it all down on my notebook. XD Anyway~ here you go. :) It's really short, by the way. :|

Have a Happy Easter! Celebrate, Jesus has risen! :D

* * *

**Chapter Eight: The Boy and his Conceit**

It's amazing how nobody notices _the Tucker kids_ walking to Church without their parents whom they saw driving there a few minutes earlier. Although we kind of wish someone does. I would be _so_ happy.

It takes a while to reach the Church because Ruby has never walked to a far place, not even to school. She always takes the bus which is at most a minute away from our house. She claims it's because she doesn't want to tire herself. And I roll my eyes on that comment because sure, you'll wear yourself out on the first few trips but once it becomes your sole way of transportation, then your body adjusts to it. You wouldn't feel that you've been walking for 10 minutes at all.

I dislike taking the bus. That driver bitch just absolutely annoys me, especially when she screams at your face even when you're doing nothing wrong. And she's deaf. At least we could get away with calling her names. So long as when she asks, we have a decent lie.

Ruby and I reach the area and are about to come in when I am stopped by a voice calling behind me.

"Why hello, Craig." Whoever sniggers.

I turn around and find Cartman with his normal grin (That is, his evil grin) beaming. He's wearing his black suit and his hair's gelled back. He looks like a fat penguin. He approaches me and I flip him off. "What do you want, fatass?"

"Oh, nothing." He coos, then chuckles softly.

"Good," I say. "For a while there, I was starting to think you were actually going to _talk_ to me." I turn around and proceed towards the Church entrance before he yells: "I _am_ going to talk to you!"

"Get inside, Ruby," I tell to my sister. "I'll be with you after I'm done praying the Holy Rosary. In the name of the Father, and of the Son—"

"Ay! Craig, you son-of-a-bitch!" Cartman exclaims.

Passers-by going to attend Mass pause and look at the fatass with shocked or disapproving faces. I could almost imagine his own face red in both anger and embarrassment. It isn't long before his mom comes out of the Church and heads towards him.

"Eric! And right outside the House of God! No dessert and snacks for you today, young man!" She says in a commanding tone which isn't the least bit very convincing.

"But _mom_!" Cartman complains as he is dragged inside. Jesus, what a baby that fatass is. I smirk and run my hand through my black hair sighing. Then I go right after him.

I sit together with my sister. My parents are nowhere to be found. "Have you seen them?" I ask Ruby.

"Somewhere in the front. I saw them talking to this other couple. They have no idea we're here." She answers.

I nod in reply. I start to look around the church. I see most of the people I know all smartly dressed. Although I _should_ be used to it since we all wear the same thing every Sunday, I still cringe at the sight.

Ruby pokes my elbow and, when I glance at her, points to where Cartman is. I think he's mouthing the words '_I peed onto you_'. My eyes widen and I scan myself for evidence of that disgusting incident.

"What are you doing?" Ruby questions.

"The fatass said he peed on me."

"…Craig."

"Yeah?"

"He said '_I need to talk to you_'."

"…Oh."

At the same moment, the choir begins playing the Opening Hymn as everyone stands and watches Father walk to the altar.

**~.::.~**

One hour devoted to the Lord felt like a whole school day especially if you regard it as Mandatory likewise to School activities. But guess what I did that I do in both places. That's right: sleep. I slept just as Father started talking during the Homily. I was surprised that when I woke up, Father was already walking down the aisle as the Closing Hymn played. I glance at Ruby and find her still asleep. At least that explains everything. It's a good thing that we're at the back.

"Hey shrimp," I say, shaking her lightly. "The Mass is over."

Ruby moans as she flutters her eyes open. "What?"

"Yeah, kid. We both fucking slept."

"Goddamn." She yawns discreetly. "No one noticed us?"

"I dunno," I answer as I stand up. "Let's go home—I hate this suit."

We both head outside, not bothering to look for our parents. Suddenly, I feel a tight grip on my arm, pulling me to a stop. I curl my hand into a fist and turn to see who I'm going to have to knock out.

"Fatass," I say, ready to punch him.

"Hold on a second, Craig," Cartman says waving his hand to assure me of his good intentions. Hah, yeah right.

"Stop bugging me!" I demand.

"I'm just here for a friendly chat, Craig." He says, smile not leaving which annoys me more.

"_Friendly_ isn't part of your vocabulary, you tub of lard."

His eye twitches and I could sense his irritation to the insult. Nevertheless, his smile stayed. "Why Craig, whatever is up your ass, my friend?"

I growl and yank my arm from his pudgy hand. "Get lost. You're lucky I hate the Spaz a hundred times more than I hate you."

"Yes, I must be." Cartman smirks in a satisfied way. "Oh, speaking of '_the Spaz_', as you moniker, I must raise an inquiry out of my own curiosity."

I roll my eyes. I really _hate_ talking about that twitch. "No, fatboy. Go home."

I start to walk away from him, but he follows. "I know very well that you hate him, Craig. Which is why I'm so ever confused at what I happened to _see_."

I pause for a moment and glance at him in suspicion. "What you saw?"

He chuckles. "Yes, yes."

Holy shit. Is he talking about yesterday when Spaz and I went out to work on our project? Goddamnit, I knew I should have gone myself!

"So what's it about? What you saw, I mean." I ask.

"Oh, did I raise your interest?" He chuckles once more.

"Just answer the fucking question." I threaten.

"It wasn't much. Just something about _you_. And, oh I don't know. Something about _Tweek_." His grin beams.

I gulp and get ready to send him to Hell's Pass. "Tell me what you saw."

"I see I got you fired up, Craig."

"Tell me what you fucking _saw_, Cartman." I grunt lifting both my balled up fists.

Cartman takes a step back. "Just calm down, Craig. I'll tell you want I saw." His grin widens and it makes me sick. "I saw…"

Here it comes.

"Your parents taking to Tweek's parents."

I stare at him, mouth open in disbelief. He got me worked up…for that? "What?"

"My mom and I got here and I saw your parents seating in the front row talking to Tweek's parents. But I didn't see either you nor Tweek. _Pretty_ suspicious, ey Craig? I wonder what it is they're talking about."

Cartman keeps saying his name. It aggravates me.

"Perhaps it's about your bullying? It didn't seem so, Craig. Perhaps—"

"Listen, fatass. You have no idea how much I give no fucking damn about those two. So if you're going to bother me again and it's about my lame excuse for parents, I suggest you go shove your head back up your ass."

I turn to head towards my sister, impatiently waiting for me a few feet ahead.

"What was that about?" She asks.

"Piece of advice: when it's Cartman, don't ask about it." I say. "So we're walking home huh?"

Ruby glances behind her. "Looks like it." I glance behind me to see where she was looking at. I find mom and dad talking to another man and woman. I recognize that man's face: it was that guy I saw inside Harbucks. So Cartman was telling the truth. Still, I don't care about those two.

But it does make me question why.

After that, we head straight home and I get to eat my Fruit Loops. And of course change into house clothes. Since I have nothing to do, I decide to go online. I turn my PC on and wait until I sign in. I browse all my contacts (which aren't really a lot) and spot Clyde's username, '_a-lister_'. My guess is that he made his account way back from Third Grade: the List incident. There we go again with the controversy!

I promptly click on his name and start a conversation.

**Punkrock101**: yo dude

**a-lister**: sup craig

**a-lister**: I was lukin 4 u ystrdy

**a-lister**: wer wr u?

At this point, I am unsure whether to relate to him everything that happened yesterday or to just keep in simple. Well, I don't want him to freak out on me if I tell him that I went to do my Bio project with the Spaz, despite it being against my will. He would be throwing questions at my face and I would have to explain it to him. And that sucks ass.

Also, I feel hesitant to tell him that I went to Token's. He would sulk and complain about him not being invited even if I was just doing my project safely there. And so I reply with this:

**punkrock101**: proj

**a-lister**: was txtng u

**punkrock101**: ddnt get em

**a-lister**: fckin cel

**punkrock101**: lol

Clyde's cell phone is close to being ancient. Although they could afford it, his parents don't approve with him having a brand new phone. And so there are times when we don't receive his messages or vice versa. This is usually the cause of why girls dump him. They either complain that he doesn't text or call back. I would feel sorry for Clyde if only he doesn't treat the fallout like nothing and goes looking for another bitch to date and another heart to break. Cool, that rhymed.

**a-lister**: herd fatass a wyl ago

**punkrock101**: huh

**a-lister**: 'craig u son of a bitch'

**a-lister**: wat he do?

**Punkrock101**: pissin me off

**punkrock101**: s nuthin

**a-lister**: cmon craig

**punkrock101**: jus smthin bout my rents tlkin 2 spaz rents

**punkrock101**: sum bllsht lyk tht

**a-lister**: tht it/

**punkrock101**: ya

**a-lister**: jeez

**punkrock101**: ya ikr

**a-lister**: w8

**a-lister**: dude y r they tlkin 2 his rents/?

**Punkrock101**: idk idc

Although it does strike me odd, as I have mentioned before. What could they possibly talk about? Me? Spaz? Or perhaps other stuff if they don't care about us so much that they would rather not talk about us? That is, if my guess is right about the Spaz' parents.

Jesus Christ! He's in my head again!

"FIGJAMFIGJAMFIGJAMFIGJAMFIGJAM…" I chant, massaging my temples.

**a-lister: **u ok?

**punkrock101: **ya

**a-lister: **k

**a-lister: **fuck. gotta do hw

**a-lister: **moms bitchin

**punkrock101: **kkk

**a-lister: **c u 2m

**punkrock101: **u 2. bye

**a-lister: **bye

And he signs out, leaving me bored out of my wits once again. I drop myself on my bed and sigh. I don't have homework. At least none that I know of. And the day has just begun. Can't hang out with Clyde 'cause he's got stuff to do. I don't want to call up Token because I've wasted his time already yesterday. What am I to do?

Suddenly, a knock on the door.

"Hey," Ruby's head pokes through the door opening. "I'm going to the mall."

"I thought you hate walking," I tell her.

She flips me off and I return the gesture. "Sure, do whatever," I say, rolling over to my stomach to bury my face on the pillow.

She doesn't say another word and I hear the door close. After a few seconds, I lift my head and groan. Then I sit up scratch the back of my head as I make up my mind. Once I do, I walk out my room and call out Ruby's name.

She turns around before she could grab hold of the doorknob of the front door. And I say: "I'm coming with."

She flips me off once again and I do the same before I go change my clothes. I put on a black shirt with black and green striped long sleeves coming out from under the shirt-length sleeves that have decorative zippers and D-rings on each shoulder. Then I wear my jeans and blue Chuck Taylors, and lastly, my blue aviator hat. It clashes, but I don't fucking care. I grab hold of my cell phone, my keys and my cheap Red Racer wallet I got from a bazaar. Then I leave the room, lock my door and take off with the kid.

Along the way, Ruby suddenly asks me: "Why do you always wear that hat?"

"It's cold," I reply. Isn't that obvious?

"No, I mean… don't you get tired of wearing that?"

I stare at her with an eyebrow raised. "What? No. I told you: it's cold."

"No, asshole," She rolls her eyes. "Why don't you buy another one? You've been wearing the same thing since I don't know when!"

I frown at her and tug on the side of my favorite hat. "Mind your own business, bitch." Like I said, I love this hat and I don't wish to grow old and tired of it.

She grumbles and we continue to walk in silence.

When we reach the mall entrance, we spot a group of girls waiting by a _Big Chilly_ cart. A red-head points at us and waves. I glance at Ruby and—what the…where the fuck did she go? I look back inside and find her running towards them. I sigh and step inside, walk past her group and flip her off. And I know she returns the gesture.

My feet take me to the Atrium and I lift my head up, my eyes meeting the glazed roof (And the sky beyond that.) I then scan The 3 floors of the building—excluding the floor I'm in, of course—all encircling the open space and wonder: now what?

I sigh. At least it's Sunday—most still respect it was a day of rest. I start to walk around, passing by shops that catch and don't catch my interest. I stare at the displays nonetheless as I stride to nowhere in particular, rewarding me with bumps and shoves from complete strangers who grunt at me with a snide remark of: "Watch where you're going, faggot!" after which I would flip them the bird. My aimless wandering now takes me to a clothing store I favor: P.U.P.Y.L. I happen to like the punk rock style, but only show it occasionally—like right now.

But honestly, I don't care that much as to what I wear, so long as it's comfortable, appropriate (for whatever the event is) and that I have my blue hat. And that means I don't waste my time and money shopping for clothes, unlike those girls who crave to flaunt the latest fashion accessory or whatever shit it is. I only purchase such when the need arises—that is, when my clothes have seemingly shrunken on me.

"Hey," I hear someone say. I glance towards the entrance (I am standing outside, staring at the attire of the mannequin on display.) My eyes lie upon a slim woman about a few feet shorter than I am sporting the most—and believe me, this is an understatement—unusual clothing I have ever seen, with hair dyed in five different colors—'_Everyone asked me, who the hell is she? That weirdo with five colors in her hair!_' God, I'm sorry I _had_ to break into song—styled as if she was New Orleans back in 2005 when Hurricane Katrina struck it (and she never recovered) and her face…let's see, '_fucked up_'? Understatement much?

"Yeah?" I reply with a concealed gag.

"You know your hat clashes, right?" I reckon she means with my clothes. I shrug and she beckons me to come inside the shop. "You'll like the hats I have to offer. They're not _that_ expensive." She breaks into a grin. At least her teeth are great. "Unless you like what you see already."

Oh, she's flirting with me! Okay, I get it now.

Hold on.

Holy shit, no thank you. I'll die of puking before I even finish the first date if _that's_ how she'll go about her days—her appearance, I mean. I know, I know, outside does not appeal to what is inside. But_ come on_, look at her! I'm more than '_not interested_'.

"Yeah, actually I do." I glance at the display. "Awesome jacket. But I believe I have enough jackets back at home." (Enough=just two.) "Anyway, I don't intend to browse your items nor do I intend to be seduced by you if that's what you're hoping for." Then with a slight chuckle: "_And_ if your hats are as funky as you, then no thanks!" And I run off which is probably is the smartest thing to do after that.

I take a breather and pause for a while at the café area. I decide to begin my wandering once more when I spot, right inside the café I stopped beside, my parents seated down and having coffee and dessert with Spaz's parents.

"Holy shit." I mutter as I jump out of view. My mind starts to debate with itself whether or not to investigate on them—which would be a surprise for me to do seeing as I could care less about them. What are they doing, really?

God, I fucking hate it when my curiosity takes the better of me.

I take my hat off to avoid recognition (I also tousle my hair) and cautiously step inside. Thank god my parents have never seen me in this outfit, or my cover would be blown because I take the risk of sitting at a table right next to theirs. I position myself so my back is facing towards them. They seem to be laughing at something.

Or someone.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I take your order?" A waitress greets warmly as she hands over the menu. I cringe at the prices before ordering a simple scoop of Ice Cream. And because my voice may be audible to them, I just point to the name.

"What flavor sir?" She then questions. I grunt and whisper: "Chocolate." She nods, takes the menu and leaves. I then perk my ears up to listen to the conversation of the bitches and the fags.

"Oh, but we've talked about Craig so much that we forgot to ask you of your kid." Mom says.

Talked about me? Not much of a surprise there.

"Oh, you have no idea how it's like," Spaz's mother groans.

"It's like a herd of raving bulls in an enclosed field—and you're the fighter with the red cloak." His father continues. "Oh, I haven't shared to you what I saw yesterday when I was watching over my hired baristas." Do tell. "I saw Craig and Tweek talking to each other outside of my café. Of course, I would normally ignore them just as how I would normally ignore the _oh so interesting _stories of people published in the _Reader's Digest_, but suddenly, your boy clutched onto the collar of my boy, raising his fist into the air in attempt to pummel him—I'm sure of that."

Oh, so it's what happened yesterday…

"And?" Dad asks in a bored tone. Suddenly, I recall that certain night when I told him that I would be getting into a fight with Spaz. He also answered me with a nonchalant and uncaring reply. The guy just doesn't give a damn about me, huh?

"Well, I kept watching them." Mr. Spaz (to make it simpler for me) continues. "I was silently wishing: '_That's right! Punch him, hurt him, do whatever you want. Kill him even!_' " He sighs. "But your son saw me and left without giving him a single scratch! I was so annoyed just like how I would bee annoyed by a pesky fly or dirty beggars throwing their hands on my face for money."

"Your ice cream, sir. Anything else?" I shake my head and start scooping up portions of my Chocolate ice cream, still attentive to the conversation.

"Tweek would always come home from school bruised and-cum-or bleeding." Mrs. Spaz takes a sip of her coffee, I figure. "But we don't do anything of course. One day I wish he would _never_ come home."

"Why do you think we always want him to be adopted?" Mr. Spaz comments. "I recall that time when Child Abduction was the highlight of News Reports, I thought: '_Yes! Hopefully, someone would abduct my child!_' So when I was '_supposedly_' conducting a drill to test if my hopes would be counted on, I was tempted to pull the trigger on him when he opened his bedroom door. But I'm not stupid—I don't want his death to be on my expense."

"He was abducted not long after—I'm sure you remember that. We knew, but didn't take action. We were rejoicing, actually! But then the fucking police came and questioned us. We were forced to act surprised and deeply worried for Tweek. But _god_, how we despised the police then."

"You want to know why we've been giving him coffee for as long as we could remember? It's because we _knew_ it would impair his health. We were right, but he got worse and worse."

Oh. My. God. These two are more messed up than my own parents! Jesus Christ! No wonder Spaz is…a Spaz.

Huh, serves him right anyway.

Mr. Spaz sighs. "I just wish Craig would finish Tweek off for all of us." Yeah, me too.

Mom agrees. "And so Craig would end up in jail for the rest of his days." What?

"Or better yet," Dad continues, "get a death sentence." Wait a GODDAMN minute. What the _fuck_ did he say?

"I say '_Amen_' to that," Mr. Spaz says with a chuckle. Laughter rings my ears. Little by little, I feel my anger boil inside me (And the pain on my right hand that's tightening its grip on the sliver spoon.)

They all stand and bid farewell to one another, leaving the café. I grit my teeth in fury. I am so _fucking_ pissed off. Not to mention disgusted by the _worst_ excuse for parents!

I bang my fist on the table. God, I need to beat the shit out of something. Or someone. Like Spaz.

Shit, I'm going to fuck them up. I'm going to shove to their faces that they won't get what they want. Oh yes, I'm going to make them suffer!

All right, calm yourself Craig. Deep breaths. In and out.

_Novocaine for the soul, before I sputter out, before I sputter out…_

Sigh. Great, I can now think straight. So Craig, what are you going to do?

I'm going to fuck them up.

Well, I guess I'm going with that. And once again, my pride has taken over my mind. But that doesn't change the fact that I hate the Spaz! I'll prove those horsefuckers wrong somehow. I just need to think.

I dig up the needed amount of money and place them atop the bill as weight. Then putting my hat back on my head, I leave in a huff.

**~.::.~**

Monday. And I'm still thinking. What _is it_ that I should do?! God. Did you know that I couldn't sleep last night for tossing and turning so much? Who knew it's so damn hard to push away two opposing forces? Knock over one, the other's bound to kick your ass. I fucking hate this. And I hate thinking so hard! Especially when deciding _what_ to do.

Maybe reduce the intensity of my damaging to the Spaz? No, that just won't do!

I blow the hair out of my face and close my locker door before leaning my head against the cold metal. I sigh.

"Was Cartman bothering you again?" I wave my hand dismissively at—and I know my guess is correct for I have been with them since I enrolled in this stupid school—Clyde whom I believe is with Token.

"Aww, poor Craig," Clyde says as if he is comforting a 3-year-old who just lost his rattle.

"What did he do to you?" Token questions. "Rape you?"

Clyde breaks into laughter. Not long after, Token joins him. And because I have my eyes closed, I find out the reason for their hysterics for I start to imagine—and when your eyes are closed, your daydream is clear as ice—Cartman, that disgusting smirk plastered on his fat face, sliding his pudgy hands under my shirt and—

"_SWEET JESUS OF NAZARETH!!!_" I scream, eyes almost popping out of their sockets, and slip on the floor, landing on my ass. Clyde and Token laugh even harder. I glare at them and flip them off. Well, at least I'm wide awake now.

The bell rings and Clyde and Token's merriment die down. "Haha...s-see you later C-Craig. Haha!" Token manages to say, waving a farewell. They walk on, propping each other up to avoid falling to the floor. I roll my eyes, pick my bag up and get on my feet to attend my first class of the week. I step inside the classroom and spot Spaz fidgeting in his seat. I take the chair next to him—as instructed and _not_ by will. I glance towards him and remember that I have to give him something. I zip open my bag and take out a CD I burned yesterday night containing all the pictures and the info needed of the Biology project.

"Here," I say, handing him the CD. He twitches and stares at it inquisitively. "It's the documentation," I tell him.

He gulps and nods furiously to show he understands. He looks like a bobble head. I lift my fist up, prepared to punch him to stop.

Then the four fucking faces flash in my mind—laughing in approval of what I am about to do. With a sneer and a flip of the bird, I ignore him and rest my chin on the palm of my left hand.

And this marks the beginning of my day in school. And surprise, surprise! I don't spend it by sleeping, but thinking hard. Fuck yes, I _do_ consider this is a very serious matter. It's practically the most my brain has ever done! It puts Fourth Quarter Math Exams, a compilation of selected topics from First to Third Quarter and all you learned in the Fourth, to shame. And that's something, I tell you!

I didn't even notice the time flying by. A few teachers have called my attention and others have told me to stand and answer the question they had just asked moments ago. I've even been sent to the Guidance Counselor, but my rate is extremely slow. And when I reached the office, I turned around and walk back to the classroom. Call it long distance pacing, if you will.

The ringing the school bell awakes me and reminds me that it's Lunch time. I take my train of thought to the cafeteria.

"Dude, 'sup?" Stan questions me. I blink for a few times and raise both my eyebrows.

"I mean—we know you're the silent but fucking deadly type, but you've been poking—or rather, stabbing—your fork on the hash brown since you got to this table." He continues, placing a French fry in his mouth.

Clyde and Token start snickering once again. Stan and those guys stare at them clueless.

"Care to share?" Kenny requests.

"Maybe plotting revenge on Cartman 'cause he pissed him off for something totally stupid," Clyde remarks, still chuckling.

Cartman's body stiffens and I could almost see a bead of sweat run down his face. As much as I would like him to think I _am_ scheming against him, I shake my head in honesty.

"What is it then?" Kyle asks. "No, wait, what did the fatass do first?"

I glare at Pudgy—who is giving a weak and fearful smile—and I answer: "Just some fucking thing to do with Spaz. Anyway, it isn't the reason why."

Cartman lets out a faint sigh of relief while Token presses on what it is that's on my mind. I wonder what I'm going to tell them...

"Nothing," I say as I stand up and leave.

And once again, the next classes zip away in the blink of an eye while I keep staring into space and thinking. It all comes down to Guidance Class. The fucking last subject. And I'm still fucking thinking.

"All right, class," teacher starts. "Last week, we did an activity. What specific activity was that, Wendy?"

"The Trust Fall, ma'am," she answers politely.

"Right. This game tests you how capable you are to trust, by allowing your safety to be placed in the hands of another, and be trusted, by making sure the person is not harmed. Last week, Kenny and Butters executed a well done Trust Fall."

I look at Kenny for a brief moment and find him winking at Butters who, in turn, smiles innocently at him. I roll my eyes and stare back down at my desk.

"But there is something else that is as important as trust. And that is giving second chances." She pauses for a while as if in hesitation and she sighs. "Craig and Tweek, I'll give you another chance to do the Trust Fall."

My head jerks up in, well, startle? I glare at the Spaz at my right who is now freaking out by all the stares, snickers and whispers that have erupted.

"He's not going to do it." I hear someone whisper.

"If he will, he'll just let him fall like last time!"

"You think his neck will snap?"

"I wonder if he kills him!" Shit.

I roll my eyes and stride to the front, crossing my arms and glaring at the Spaz still glued to his chair. He meets my gaze and, panic-stricken, stumbles to the front beside me.

"Up. Now." I grunt. Good Lord, what am I to do? Spaz looks at the teacher with pleading eyes who just gestured towards the table. Wow, if she wants him to crack his skull open then that's fanfuckingtastic!

Spaz, defeated and whimpering, steps atop the table and almost falls off before even getting to the right position. He trembles in fear and I could only guess that he's praying to the Heavens above.

I outstretch my arms forward. "No freakin' pressure," I assure him. "I'll catch you." That statement is unknown to me of its certainty. The Spaz, fully aware that I had said that last week, is even more hesitant.

I, still undecisive as to what I would do, order him to "Fucking jump already!" And the Spaz, in surprise and in fright, falls backwards and I...

...still have no idea what to do.

_9 feet to impact._

I could catch him. I could have him free of damage when he gets home. And the look on his parent's faces when they see him... That'll be wonderful.

_8 feet to impact._

Or I could not. Just let him fall and watch his eyes pop out as a pool of crimson appears from under his head. Oh god, I would be the happiest person alive!

_7 feet to impact._

But the parents!

_6 feet to impact._

But I hate him!

_5 feet to impact._

Oh, to fuck with it.

I lunge forward slightly and grab him before he could fall to the ground. But the sudden weight on my arms cause the both of us to fall backwards. Hello floor, meet my back!

_**THUD**_

Fuck...hurts...god...

I groan, still conscious, but I couldn't open my eyes. I hear the teacher clapping her hands in joy and her encouragements for the class to do the same. I also hear the whisperings and the awkward claps from the class. I hear Spaz's gasps and exclamations as he twitched on top of me as well. But most of all, I hear my own voice telling myself:

I should have thought about my pride and reputation here in school.

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **Well, that went by fast. :| Sorry if it isn't that great. Anyways~ Yay! Craig caught Tweek! Celebrate.

_Novocain For the Soul (c) Eels_

"_Life is good_

_And I feel great_

'_Cause mother told me I'm_

_A GREAT mistake_"

I love this song from Eels. XD Anyway~ Happy Easter! :3


	9. Call Him Einstein

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **:copypasteplz:

**Author's Notes: **Sorry if the update is a bit late. Hey, it's summer! And summer means 'Gimmick Time'! So I've been going out with family and friends… I even got an unwanted tan. D: Good thing I'm naturally fair (so my mom says.) Anyway, I gave my all to finish this chapter. So… there! :)

**EDIT:** Crap. I'm so sorry! I accidentally turned Mr. Garrison into a woman again. . I fixed it now. Darn my stupidity. XP

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Call Him Einstein**

For the first time in my life, I want to get home as soon as possible. (Save for back when _Red Racer_ was on everyday of the week.) I would run home where I will only lie in bed bored out of my wits until Ruby calls me for Dinner just to escape from this harassment—in the form of questions I couldn't answer, for I have no idea what to answer.

Let's recap. I caught Spaz in the Trust Fall during Guidance, my back hit the floor hard due to the weight, I was brought to the Clinic to check if I haven't broken my spine and to relieve the back pain, I was met with questioning stares, whispers and questions of why I did it when I got out…

"Will you fucking leave me alone, douchebags?"

And now I just called my two best friends douchebags. Fanfuckingtastic.

Clyde and Token stare at me dumbfounded and I, who am quite surprised at what I had said myself, grunt and briskly walk away from them.

"Next fucktard to go near me gets some of this shit right here!" I announce, raising my right fist. Instantly, my path to the main doors is cleared of students who push themselves to the side.

And _god_ I'm so pissed off! And I don't even know why! Is it because I saved that Freak? Is it because my decision took a day and a half to think of? Is it because of the fucking people who pestered me? Is it because I screamed at Token and Clyde? What _is_ it?!

Hold on, I perfectly know who's responsible for my aggravation. It's Spaz. It's always been the Spaz's fault! If only I didn't care about the parents _that_ much to _not_ consider proving them wrong, then I wouldn't think twice about killing him!

No wait, it's the parent's fault! If only they didn't care _that_ much about us to _not_ celebrate at our misfortune, then I would have…

_What?_ God, I'm confusing myself! I don't know whose fault it is: Spaz, Parents or my own! Wait, how could this be _my_ fault?

Suddenly, I awake from my thoughts as I hear myself scream: "_ARGH!_"

It just so happened that one millisecond ago, due to my half-run and being so deep into thought that I didn't concentrate on where I was walking, I tripped on a stray rock in the middle of the side walk. One second later, my face is now buried on the cold snowy ground.

The rock tells you to chill, I say to myself. I quickly lift my head and wipe my face semi-clean. I sigh and continue on, careful not to trip on another rock. As I arrived home, I head upstairs to my room instantly. I unlock the door, drop my bag and fall on my bed, banging my face on the soft pillow. Why I'm doing this I have no idea why. I roll to my back and sigh. Turning my head to the side, my eyes lie upon my Hamster clock. Four seventeen. Wow, usually I would arrive more or less half an hour after four. I sigh once again.

Great, now I'm bored. I sit up and take off my shoes, then my stained jacket and deposit it in the laundry basket in my bathroom. I massage my temples—christ, my head hurts.

Jesus, I need to calm down. I leave the room and head to the kitchen to grab myself an apple from the steel basket of fruits on the table then wash and soap it clean. I learned that some time ago when I went down to get a _Snickers_ and saw Ruby watching _Martha_. At first I thought it was weird that you scrub it using _Scotch Brite_ and _Joy_, but I then found it very reasonable. And so I do it all the time.

I turn off the tap and shake off the excess water. I then head back upstairs, lock the door and take a semi-bite of the apple, letting it stay in my mouth as I grab my pillow and blanket from my bed and head inside the bathroom. I drop them in the tub and take the apple off my mouth, completing the bite as I do. I wipe the juice that trickled down my chin using the back of my hand and turn on the radio of the boom box beside the Laundry Basket. After that, I lie inside the tub, eating my apple and listening to the songs that play.

I do this whenever I'm bored—and I have absolutely _nothing_ else to do—or stressed—which I am as of now.

"_To see you when I wake up is a gift I didn't think could be real…_"

I remember, back when I had Stripe, I would take him with me, sit in the tub—like what I'm doing right now—and talk to him for hours (or at least until I'm called for dinner). Back then, I didn't experience the heaviness you feel when you bottle up everything inside. I always talk to Stripe. And even if he would scurry around the tub, I know perfectly well that he listened.

But ever since he turned gay and went missing, nothing has been the same. Stan claimed that his dog Sparky is also gay, and he said that gay animals go to this one place called '_Big Gay Al's Animal Sanctuary_'. He told me where to find it, but I've never thought about going to see him…her…whatever. It's been almost 5 years since I last saw Stripe.

I didn't know who to open up to anymore. I couldn't buy another pet because there's no other like Stripe. And because I didn't have enough money, and I didn't want to ask my parents. When I was stressed or bored, I didn't know what to do but lie in bed and stare blankly at the ceiling.

And then I won a boom box when I joined a raffle in _Whistlin' Whilly's_. When I got home, I turned it on and just lied in bed listening. And that's how I discovered my love of music. So now, I would stay at the bathroom to just listen to the songs. Why, may one ask, don't I stay in my bedroom?

"_I know I'll see you again  
Whether far or soon  
But I need you to know that I care  
And I miss you…"_

That verse says it all.

"_She's cold and she's cruel, but she knows what she's doing…"_

A few times before, when I just happen to fall asleep in the tub, Ruby would come in and turn on the faucet, drenching me with water. Then she would scream at me face that dinner's ready. Bitch, right? I would have to clean myself before going down. Hah, but that won't happen ever again now that I have a new doorknob.

"_But movies never made you famous_

_All your dreams got lost or traded_

_And all you ever cared about got lost…_"

I take another bite from my apple and yawn. I guess I'm getting tired. It's because I didn't sleep throughout the day, I figure.

"_So boycott love, detox just to retox_

_And I'd promise you anything for another shot at life…_"

"_Angels sang out in immaculate chorus.  
Down from the heavens descended Chuck Norris,  
Who delivered a kick which could shatter bones  
Into the crotch of Indiana Jones…"_

"_Lately I've been walking through all these places that I cannot stand.  
I guess it's just my history talking, now I'm refusing to supply your demand…"_

"_And…fail to…they…show us,  
…never…to sing…"_

"_I'm…damn sure…ever leave…"_

"_Mphbtmrtpbghpdmmgrp…"_

**~.::.~**

I wasn't aware of my falling asleep until I woke up, the core of the apple still on my hand and the radio still playing songs. I yawned and cleared my throat, rubbing the crud out of my eyes with my free hand. I get up and step out of my bathroom and take a look at my Hamster clock. My eyes widened only slightly as I read the time: _Twelve twenty-nine_.

I sighed and leave the room, heading to the Kitchen to get myself Dinner. The rumbling of my stomach practically resonates in the house! Yes, I am _that_ hungry. I didn't eat Lunch remember? And I skipped dinner dozing off. Ruby mast have been so frustrated when she kept calling me and knocking on the door which failed to awake me. I smile at that.

After throwing the core in the Trash Bin, I open the fridge door and peak inside. I spot something wrapped in foil and take it out to check what it is. Wow. Fish and chips. Awesome.

Getting a glass bowl, I drop the contents in it and place it in the microwave, setting the hopefully correct time. After pressing enter, I take a seat and wait. The whirring of the machine resonates throughout the house. I clear my throat and rest my chin on the palm of my hand. The fingers of my other hand tap continuously on the table in this particular beat.

_Tap. One second._

_Tap. One second._

_Tap. One second._

_Scratch, scratch. _(My cheek.)

_Rub, rub._ (My eyes.)

Sigh. That's it, I'm watching TV.

I head to the Living Room and turn the television on. I start flipping channels. Channel after channel after channel after channel. They say the best shows are broadcasted at this time of day.

"_JackTV presents…" _I'll stick with this. _"…The Domination."_

The title screen fades out and I now see a guy walking over to his TV. "_I think I'll go watch TV_." And he turns it on. Sounds familiar.

As the guy gobbles his popcorn, an unknown announcer-like voice speaks. "_This is a very nice doll...this is what happens after...cute! Cute! Cute!"_ Queer…

I continue watching the skit.

"**Viewer**: (is hypnotized)  
**???:** Now that you are hypnotized, you will dress as a doll. Dress color? Black and white. Yes…it should be black and white…  
**Viewer**: Why black and white?  
**???:** Because…because. Those colors are…don't ask me questions, you asshole! Besides, why are you asking me questions willfully? YOU'RE HYPNOTIZED! (pause) No wait…  
**Viewer**: Not black and white dress?  
**???:** No, I said wait you motherfucker! First, you must…dance. Dance like a little butt-kicking bunny foofoo everybody's SEEN!  
**Viewer**: Dance? (starts dancing like a little butt-kicking bunny foofoo everybody's seen)"

I hear the microwave sound and I rush to the kitchen to get my dinner. I transfer the hot food onto a new plate and pour myself a glass of water before going back to the Living Room.

The unknown voice is laughing now.

"_(Neighbor comes to visit.)_

**Neighbor**: Hey…Jack? What are you doing?

**Viewer/Jack**: Must…dance…

**Neighbor**: (Watches commercial too. Also becomes hypnotized)  
**???:** Enough! Now…change!

**Viewers:** (change into little cute dolls, whose dresses are black and white with lots of laces, ribbons, ruffles and shiny gems stuck on it. The odd thing is, the viewers are both guys. Passers-by happen to see the two men from the window in the Living Room.)  
**Passer-by:** Look at those faggots.  
**Viewers**: Dolls… black and white…  
**Passer-by**: Just leave them alone. Might be foreplay.  
**Viewers**: Watch… TV…  
**???:** LOL…OMG, WTF…YOU TWO…HAHAHA! Okay… (ahem) The master will speak to you.

_ALL HAIL THE GREAT MASTER OF ALL EVIL, THE MASTERMIND OF THIS PLOT TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD FULL OF DOLL-LOOKING PEOPLE!_

**Master:** Yo."

The master's a woman? No wonder…

"**Viewers**: (bow)  
**Master**: Yeah, yeah…bow.

**Viewers**: We bow to the master…master…  
**Master**: Uh…Sam, my loyal companion, my right hand man, my partner—aww, geez! Just look! Look at them!  
**Sam**: Hey! They're bowing to you!  
**Master**: I'm not stupid Sam. I can see that they're bowing to me.  
**Sam**: I know. Just stating the obvious.  
**Master**: MINION!  
**Minion**: Yes, sir?  
**Master**: What's this?  
**Minion**: Your quest, sir? To take over the world full of doll-looking people?  
**Master**: I can see that. You all announced it a while ago.  
**Minion**: Master…  
**Master**: Ok, I remember now. Sam?  
**Sam**: Hmm? You called? Anything you need?  
**Master**: Firstly, I want you to torture the minion for calling me 'sir'. Secondly, why are they wearing those kinds of dresses?  
**Sam**: What's wrong with them?  
**Master**: Look at my other minions. (Points to hypnotized minions wearing rainbow colors.)  
**Sam**: …What?  
**Dorothy**: Black and white don't fit in!  
**Sam**: Ah—I'm sorry, master! I just thought…

**Master: **(Sigh) Sam…

**Sam: **What should we do, master?  
**Master**: (Eye twitches) Hmm…  
**Sam**: What about drowning them?  
**Master**: No wait, Sam. (Faces the 2 viewers) Change. Just change, minions!  
**Sam**: (Was ordering other minions to get the pool ready.) Aww…and I was getting ready too…  
**Master**: (Punches Sam)  
**Sam**: Hey! What was that for?  
**Master**: Shut up, Sam.  
**Sam**: Anyways, I'll eat first. You straighten that out. You're their master after all. (Leaves and goes to get food)  
**Master**: Asshole. You know, Sam is such a bitch that assassins are trying to sneak up behind her as we speak.  
_  
(Sam is faster than the assassins though. She evades each attack. Still eating McFlurry)_

**Sam**: (Comes back unharmed and with a full belly)  
**Master**: (Punches her in the head)  
**Sam**: Ouch! Now what was _that_ for?  
**Master**: How could you evade such attacks from assassins?  
**Sam**: Didn't you know I had special training?  
**Master**: That's funny 'cause I swear I kicked your butt last night. OOPS! Damn my secret…  
**Sam**: Huh? So that's why it hurts…  
**Master**: No, no! Forget that!  
**Sam**: Anyways, I had my training with monkeys on a high mountain.  
**Master**: I bet you didn't expect this but I was one of those monkeys who trained you. THEREFORE I AM MORE POWERFUL THAN YOU'LL EVER BE!  
**Sam**: What? I know that! Besides the training's just for self defense and for eating.  
**Master**: (GASP) YOU ATE MONKEYS?  
**Sam**: No, I ate bananas and made banana split with the bananas I saved. You weren't there were you?  
**Master**: Dude, I was asleep. Where'd you get the ice cream?  
**Sam**: We were in a snowy mountain!  
**Master**: I see… anyway, what are we going to do about them?  
**Sam**: Why are you asking me?  
**Master: **Silence!  
**Sam**: …  
**Master: **Hm. I'm hungry. Let's make them cook first.  
**Sam: **(Eyes widen) M-Master…?

**Master**: (evil grin) …HAMBURGERS!  
Sam: No…no!

_(FLASHBACK)_

_**Sam**__: (To the guy behind the counter) I want a hamburger._

_**Guy**__: Here you go. (Hands the burger)_

_**Sam**__: (Eats) Yum! This is great!_

_**Guy**__: (LOL) April Fools! That's not a burger! It's dogshit between two buns!_

_**Sam**__: But it's not April…_

_**Guy**__: Oh. (Continues laughing at Sam's face)  
_

_(END OF FLASHBACK)_

**Sam**: (Eye twitches)

**Master**: (Punches Sam) Hey, I was only kidding! I made them cook me this hotdog while you were having a flashback.

**Sam**: So…now what?

**Master**: Hmm…let's just make them give us their money.  
**Minions**: (Line up to give their money)  
**Master**: (After receiving the money) HOLY SHIT! $300,000,000?!  
**Sam**: If you put your half together with mine, you'll get…  
**Master**: JESUS CHRIST! $10,000,000,000?! THAT'S HOW RICH MY MINIONS ARE?!  
**Sam**: Yeah! I mean…I only hypnotize the ones that will benefit us a great deal.  
**Master**: Oh my fucking god, I'm so loaded!  
**Sam**: Hey, We're splitting, remember?

**Master**: Yeah, yeah, yeah…whatever.  
**Sam**: Anyways, what'll we do with $10,000,000,000 master?  
**Master**: I shall buy the sky! And you shall buy all the food stores in this entire planet!  
**Sam**: Yes! (Thinks: _You can't buy the sky…ah well, she's the master!_)  
**Master**: That's not all! I shall make everyone put up shrines of me in every house! And they shall worship it as much as they do before me! BWAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!  
**Sam**: Uhm—  
**Master**: And the only crops that shall grow on everyone's farms are pineapples and carrots!  
**Sam**: Mas—  
**Master**: And, for my most deadly plan… (eyes start twitching) …my precious minions will be—  
**Sam**: Master?!  
**Master**: Sam! You just spoiled the psycho plan revelation and evil LOL!  
**Sam**: I'm sorry master for disturbing you. Besides wondering why you turned insane, what about those two still watching this commercial?  
**Both**: (Look at viewers still bowing)  
**Master**: Hm…wait… (clears throat) MY LOYAL VIEWERS! I WILL NOT LET YOU GO THAT EASILY. YOU WILL SEW YOURSELVES CLOTHING THAT ARE VERY SIMILAR TO DEAR DANIEL, HELLO KITTY'S LOVEY-DOVEY PARTNER. AND YOU WILL FOREVER BE MY MINIONS!  
**Sam**: That's a great idea! Although, it would be nicer if they sew Hello Kitty clothing instead.

**Master**: Don't tell me what to do, bitch! I'm the master! Now, go my minions! Go forth and make me happy!  
**Viewers**: Yes, master!  
**Master**: THIS IS JUST THE FIRST STEP OF MY WORLD DOMINATION!  
(Other minions cheer)  
**Dorothy**: As master of this organization of Young People Loaded With Money Trying To Take Over The World For Some Stupid Reason club, I hereby declare the party to officially START!  
**Sam**: And as the right hand of the master, I say on her behalf—minions, have fun! Or else I'll drown you. Now we don't want that do we?  
**Narrator: **The YPLWMTTTOTWFSSR club consisted of 2 members and brainless hypnotized minions headed off; Sam, eating her lifetime supply of McFlurry she bought (together with other assorted lifetime supplies of food); the minions dancing mindlessly to the background music of _Shake Your Groove Thing_ and _Sugar Honey_; and the Master going out to prance around the sculptures of her face to be put in the altars.

And so, having full domination over the sky, planning her evil psycho changes over her controlled earth and laughing evil snorting LOLs as the thought of macho guys and clowns with big noses bowing like crazy as she laughs evil snorting LOLs while she sits at her throne. Their life was just what they wanted it to be, with minions and having everything they wanted with just a snap.

**Master**: Today the world, tomorrow the Universe!  
**Sam**: Yeah! Imagine Martians with dresses!

_(end)_

_(Credits roll.)_"

I turn the TV off and find myself staring into space, hand gripping tightly to the empty plate. The next thing I knew, I hear my voice escape my parted lips: "That was fucked up."

**~.::.~**

"Clyde's pissed at you."

I look at my left and stare at Token questioningly, closing my locker door and slinging my bag to my shoulder.

He shrugs. "He isn't going to talk to you, he said."

I sigh as I lean to the lockers. "Okay, what did I do?"

"What you did yesterday."

"Why would he be pissed at me for that?"

"Why'd you catch him anyway?"

I roll my eyes. "It's none of your business, all right?"

Token sneers and walks away, not saying another word. And I was really puzzled because I know for a fact that Clyde and Token are the ones who completely understand me and my temper. Sure, Clyde hates the Spaz too but it's pretty clear who hates him more. Jesus, Clyde can be such a crybaby.

"God…" I bang my head to my locker door. "Ow…"

The rest of the day, I stayed on my own. I didn't come to our usual spot during Recess and I didn't even acknowledge them when we had class together. I must be irritating them more because it seems like _I_ was the one doing the ignoring. Well, yes I did ignore them. What else was I supposed to do? They wouldn't talk to me no matter what, that's for sure.

When it was Lunch Time, I stayed at our Recess spot and watched little Elementary school kids play in their playground instead of eating the delicious food Chef would serve. It was kind of boring but I survived. I started having flashbacks of when I was a kid. All the troubles we've gotten ourselves into—or rather, all the troubles Cartman and those guys got us into. I guess we were pretty brainless, but I can't say that I regret a single day in my life. Except maybe getting involved with Spaz. Ugh…

Now it's Double Period Biology. The reason why I dread Tuesdays.

"Pass your activity sheets now," Sir Dickhead tells us. "I'll give you the rest of the period to discuss your Investigatory Projects. I'll be expecting the Final Draft soon."

That reminds me… We can claim our project from that _Color Me Prime_ place today. Should I tell Spaz or not?

Wait. What the hell am I thinking?

Instantly, I bang my head to the table top, resulting the class to silence for a moment—obviously to stare at me. Without looking up, I raise both my hands up and flip all of them off.

And, of course, this is followed by the angry bellow of my name, and finally a dragging trip to the Counselor's Office. Same routine for Craig Tucker.

And as if right on queue, I emerge from my brief meeting with Big head as the dismissal bell rings. I head straight to my locker to deposit my stuff as briskly as I could before taking off to that ceramics store.

It takes a while to get there because I…kind of forgot where it was. I'm not used to going to South Park's Main Street, and I've only been to Stan's house a few times—not enough to memorize the way.

When I do arrive there, I enter the shop and am not that much surprised to find the store keeper asleep and snoring loudly, making me cringe. How the hell am I supposed to get my project?

Oh, there it is.

I pick up the plate placed atop the table we worked on last Saturday. It actually looked pretty good. Craig Tucker, you're a fucking genius.

Giving myself a mental pat on the back and head back out the shop. But I bump into some bastard who is supposed to enter as I exit, knocking him down and causing me to stagger backwards.

Guess who?

_Ding-ding-ding_! You guessed right! It's the Spaz! You may now stick your dick up your own ass and cum your earwax! (Didn't get it right? Do that and suck your balls all at the same time!)

"Shit… watch where you're fucking going, you fucking Spaz!" I yell, but only loud enough for a few people to hear us.

"_GAH! _I'm so sorry, C-Crai—_JESUS!_" He screams back.

Crap, I need to get him to shut up. "Whatever, dude." I say and extend my arm towards him, offering my hand to help him up. He stares at it for a few seconds in disbelief. But before I let myself change my own mind and before I run out of patience, I grab his arm and haul him up to his feet.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, completely forgetting the fact that he works in _Harbucks_—which is right beside _Color Me Prime._

"_GAH!_ I w-was going to get the p-project! _ERG! JESUS!_" He replies, tugging his shirt and pulling it here and there.

"It's a good thing you didn't make me drop our project, or you're dead, Spaz." I tell him with a grunt, glancing at the ceramic I am holding.

"_NGH!_ OH MY GOD! I ALMOST DESTROYED OUR PROJECT? _GAH!_ I'M SORRY! _ARGH!"_ He spazzes, followed by screams of '_Oh my God!_'. I grimace and take a few steps away from him. Passers-by stop and stare at him, pressuring him and making him spaz even more.

It all results to him slipping on the sidewalk and falling to his back on the street, just seconds before a speeding car comes to view.

And it all happens in a blink of an eye—with me just gaping at the scene before me speechless while the rest scream and flip their phones to speed dial Hell's Pass. And what plays in my mind is one word: _Fuck_.

Because the car stopped inches away from Spaz's face.

**~.::.~**

"I didn't do it," I mutter under my breath. Mr. Mackey glances down at me with an unsure expression. I glance back and sigh. Then I catch him glancing behind him—to where Spaz's and my parents are. I grip on the arm rests of the chair I am sitting on, hoping that, if the parents don't, the present members of the school staff believe me—that includes Mr. Mackey, Mr. Garrison (our homeroom teacher) and Principal Victoria—yes, she transferred departments. She was also our Middle School principal. She wouldn't say why, but we all know she's following my batch.

As I hear Principal Victoria sigh, I look up. "Craig," she says softly. "Why would you—"

"I didn't do it!" I protest.

"Don't raise your voice to a teacher, young man!" Mr. Garrison scolds.

I roll my eyes. "You have to believe me_. _I really had nothing to do with it!"

"What exactly happened, Craig?" Mr. Mackey asks.

"After dismissal, I walked to _Color Me Prime_—it's a ceramics store on Main Street. I claimed our Biology project there and when I went out, I bumped into Spaz."

"Who?" Principal Victoria asks.

"It's Tweek, ma'am." Mr. Mackey answers for me.

"I told him that we were lucky that the project didn't fall or else it'll break and he started spazzing. And he tripped, fell on the street where he almost got run over by a speeding Mustang. He freaked and passed out. I did nothing wrong!"

"Is that true, Craig?" Mr. Garrison questions.

"Yes!" I reply.

Principal Victoria sighs and looks at Spaz's parents. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Tweak."

"You don't have to apologize, Principal Victoria." Says Spaz's dad uncharacteristically.

"How is he?"

"He's doing fine, but he's been admitted due to serious psychic trauma."

"You have my condolences." She then turns her gaze back at me, and with a chuckle I say: "Oh, I know what's next. You're going to sentence me to visit Spaz daily at Hell's Pass until he's out. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Actually, I was about to dismiss you to go about your day, but that is a wonderful idea! From now until he is discharged, you will visit him and help him with his school work. You may now leave."

Craig Tucker, you are a _fucking_ genius.

* * *

**Claimers: **The story _**'The Domination'**_ is written by my sister and her friend over Y!M. I edited it because…dear Lord, it looked like a drunk retard on high on meth. And that's just an understatement.

**Disclaimers: **_I Miss You_ (c) Incubus

_Just the Girl_ (c) The Click Five

_Where There's Gold_ (c) Dashboard Confessional

_Disloyal Order of the Water Buffalos_ (c) Fall Out Boy

_The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny_ (c) Lemon Demon

_That 70's Song_ (c) The Cab

_Learn to Sing_ (c) Sherwood

_Make Damn Sure_ (c) Taking Back Sunday

**Further Author's Notes:** I'll leave it up to there~ I want the next chapter to focus on Craig's trips to the hospital to visit Tweekers. x

And… **ADAM LAMBERT** FOR THE WIN! WHOO~! XD (Don't mind me~ Just walk on by… :D)


	10. Accidentally, Possibly

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **:copypasteagainplz: Also, I forgot to mention that the store '_P.U.P.Y.L._' from Chapter Eight (_The Boy and his Conceit_) is a parody of a local store called '_Y.R.Y.S._' which stands for _Your Rules Your Style_. Do not ask me what _P.U.P.Y.L._ stands for because you'll be disappointed with a crappy acrostic.

**Author's Notes: **To all those who did not see the error from the previous chapter, I accidentally changed Mr. Garrison's gender back to female when he isn't supposed to be one. I'm very, very sorry. I edited it so it's back to '_Mr. Garrison_'. You can now laugh at my idiocy.

My, how this story is progressing. I hope this won't end so quickly. D: And yes, Adam's loss made me cry. But Kris is still amazing! The thing is, I'm _very_ happy they're the top two finalists and that's that. :)

Anyway, I might post the next chapter really late. I'm going back to school in 2 weeks time so I most probably won't have time to update. But I'll try! XD Thanks for everyone's support. :)

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Accidentally, Possibly**

"From now until he is discharged, you will visit him and help him with his school work."

That one sentence played in my head in a loop, along with the silent chuckles of the four parents as we all part ways—I staying standing outside the office in disbelief of what had taken place just a few minutes before.

What a wonderful way to start a Wednesday, hm?

Once I absorb and raise my white flag to the punishment I did _not_—as far as I'm concerned—deserve, I walk to my first class almost dragging my feet as if I am to do my chores.

I hate that painfully effortful feeling.

On the bright side, at least I won't be able to look at his ugly face and converse with him for ¾ of my day.

When I step inside the classroom, Mr. Journalism doesn't acknowledge me, obviously concentrated on writing notes on the board. In fact, no one acknowledges me. I walk to my seat and drop my bag on Spaz's chair as an unspoken message that he wouldn't be joining us for today. Or rather, for a while.

I reach for the zipper of my bag to get my notebook and in doing so, I glance towards Token and Clyde busily copying the lesson.

That's when I realize the downside: it's going to be a quiet day for me.

And it's clear what I have to do.

**~.::.~**

"I'm sorry." The words came out naturally and sincerely—just what I hoped for.

Clyde and Token continue staring at me with blank faces that urge me to go on.

"I was an asshole," I say. "There's nothing surprising about that. Anyway, I didn't mean to yell and call you two douches. I mean—you guys know me. I'm not exactly famous for being the comely and forbearing type. And…the thing is, I don't think I could go on any longer without you guys there by my side. So I hope you could forgive me."

For a few moments, it seems like they couldn't buy it—not even my dramatic and cheesy ending.

But then I see their lips twitch and suddenly, they were laughing. I sigh in relief.

"You aren't famous for having effective cutesy lines either," Token comments.

"Aww, shit Craig! I missed you!" Clyde exclaims, throwing himself at me and suffocating me with his man hug.

"Yeah. The atmosphere didn't feel quite right when you weren't there." Token says, nodding his head. "It was just too quiet."

I raise my eyebrow. "But I don't talk that much."

"Your silence is _completely_ different from the Craig's-not-here silence."

All I could say is: "Wow."

I would sound like a pussy if I say that I am touched by what they have told me, but I admit that they made my day. They always do. That's practically the job of a best friend.

I'm happy to be spending my Recess time right beside the Elementary playground and with these two again.

"So what's up the past few days?" Clyde asks me, tying his shoe.

"Nothing," I reply truthfully. "But you won't believe what happened yesterday."

"God, we heard about that car accident," Token says turning his full attention towards me. "Never knew you'll have the guts to do it, though."

"I didn't!" I yell defensively. "He was being a freak and spazzed like hell until he slipped off the curb and _almost_ got run over. And I had _nothing_ to do with it! _Now, _I had a meeting with the principal and she told me—_penalized_ me—that I have to visit Spaz every after dismissal at the hospital."

"Dude, weak!" Clyde says, rising from the ground.

I groan, leaning my back to the wall. "I can't deal with this anymore."

"Hey," Clyde puts his hand on my shoulder. "Craig Tucker _never_ gives up. Why do you think everyone calls you the Badass? 'Cause you never back out from a fight until you beat the shit out of whoever's fucking with you with your bare hands. And because you're an uber cool motherfucker."

Again with the _'badass'_ talk. "I'm not a Badass, Clyde." Although I can't argue with what he just said. "But you're damn right. I shouldn't give in just yet."

"That's the spirit, buddy!" He exclaims before glaring at Token. "Token, I don't hear _you_ encouraging the poor guy."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Token says to him. "You were doing so well that I thought no intervention would be accepted."

"Well, I _am_ a pretty motivating guy." Clyde shrugs with a smug grin.

"Yes, Clyde. You're great at motivating others to stay optimistic and yet you fail at being motivated when it comes to school work. Or any kind of work at that. _Amazing._" Token claps with fake wonder.

"Asshole!"

As a friendly argument breaks out, I couldn't stop myself from laughing. Though I had problems more than I could weigh, I'm grateful that at least I have my two buddies back.

Recess time ends and we head to the room which never fails brings me back bitter memories. As we take our usual seats, I stare at the blackboard with the two words that never go missing, despite the constant cleanups of the janitor. Two words that started the whole freaking thing with Spaz and I.

_Shop Class._

I sigh and lay my head on my folded arms.

"Well, well, well!" I hear someone announce after the sound of the door swinging open. I look up and see Cartman and those guys.

"It looks like the three amigos finally put a stop to their little pussy fight," Cartman says.

"Finally!" Kenny exclaims, walking towards us. "Now that you're back from hiding, Craig, I guess it's my privilege to raise the topic of Guidance Cla—"

All of a sudden, I feel Clyde's leg swing abruptly to kick Kenny's shin, causing him to yelp and fall back, _this_ close to colliding with the teacher's table.

"What the fuck?" I whisper, glancing at Clyde for just a second before turning my head towards the door where our stout teacher now stands and telling us off.

"Hey! Stop screwing around! You screw around too much!" In an instant, everyone goes to their respective places.

"All right," he goes on, taking his place in the front. "Today we will be doing…"

"If my hours after dismissal were free, I would buy you a dozen tacos, no questions asked." I whisper to Clyde.

"I'd ask you why that meant a lot to you, but after you said '_tacos_', I'll let it slip off my mind." He snickers.

I really didn't want to bring up that subject again. How am I supposed to explain to them that I caught Spaz because of this little issue I have with the psycho parents? The speech would end up longer than a Valedictorian's, I tell you that.

"Now, follow me to the table saws," Mr. Adler says. "And no screwing around!"

With a groan, we all rise and walk towards the machine, giving way for him to head on first.

"You guys should steer clear from Craig," Cartman yelled, earning everyone's attention. "Or he'll kill you just like what he was trying to do with Tweek!"

I grunt. "I told you, fatass, I didn't do it!"

"Hey, hey! Stop screwing around and pay attention!" Mr. Adler says, before going on with the demonstration.

"I gotta hand it to you Craig, everyone knows you're badass, but after you almost killed your most hated enemy," Cartman picks up a hammer and a nail from a nearby table. "The whole school sees you as this hammer over here, and all of us as this little nail. I'm surprised Clyde and Token still stick to you. Unless, you know, you _threatened_ them or something."

"You better can it, fatass, before I really pound you like a hammer would to an ant." I seethe. "And for the last time, I did _not_ try and kill Spaz!"

"I know, I know. The big house is quite frightening, Craig. Believe me, I've been there. But I guess what _you_ did _is_ rather bigger—"

"I DID _NOT_ DO IT!" I scream in fury, landing a strong punch on the fatass's cheek. The blow makes him let go of the hammer on his hand and sends him hurling to the floor. The hammer flies off towards Kenny, who had just been told by Mr. Adler to cut the wood just as he had showed, and hits him squarely on the head, resulting him to slip and land on the blade. We all watch wide-eyed at his body being sawed through.

"Fuck!" he gurgles. It is Mr. Adler who isn't as frozen as we all are and makes the move to stop the machine. Silence fills the room as the whirring sound dies down, and horrified looks stare at the bloody mess.

"Oh my god!" Stan exclaims. "They killed Kenny!"

"You bastards!" Kyle echoes.

"Okay—_that_." I say, eyes refusing to tear away from the sight. "_That_ I did."

Then Mr. Adler tells us off with a scold we all know by heart, after which he calls for an ambulance. We all go outside to watch as the white uniformed EMTs haul Kenny's corpse on the stretcher, then whisk him away to the hospital or wherever. Behind me, I could hear Cartman complain about the bruise that is now forming on his cheek, followed by Stan and Kyle's apathetic responses. When Mr. Adler tells us all to get back to the room, Cartman and I keep our distances, glaring at each other intensely.

The day goes by insignificantly. Although Lunch did seem odd without the talkative Kenny around, we managed. Others didn't even notice. Instead, Cartman's stupidity was the main subject of the table and the said fatass's reaction to all opinions was too violent for words. He even looked as if he was planning revenge. As soon as I noticed it, however, I threatened him: "Just try and get back at me, Cartman, and I'll do something worse than what you did to that Scott Tenorman. That's no lie." I think that made him piss his pants.

But what he said earlier in Shop Class—about my reputation becoming likewise to a hammer as the others are nails—are surprisingly accurate. I feel like the star of my own version of _Zohan_, only the quote is the one that fits into the situation.

'_Don't mess with the Tucker, bitches._'

Okay, the last word is improv.

Anyway, going back to the important point, it is now dismissal. And—surprise, surprise—I actually dreaded that bell to sound for the first time in my life. Well, other than the time when Spaz had to go to my house for the stupid Biology project weeks ago. And so I draw deep breaths and pray for my own sanity before I lose it from dealing with the Spaz. I give a small wave to Clyde and Token before heading out. It doesn't take as long as I hoped it would be before I reach _Hell's Pass_, South Park's hospital. It's actually the most important place in the town, what with all the strange things that would happen now and then that would cost people their health. Sometimes even their lives. Which is why that makes the second most important place the Morgue.

I step inside and head straight for the Information booth.

"Excuse me," I say curtly to the woman behind the desk. She looks up from her logbook and flashes me a welcoming smile.

"Yes, how may I help you?"

"I'm here to visit a…schoolmate." Yeah, that's the not best way to describe him. "Could I know where his room is?"

She picks up her pencil and starts to scribble on the logbook. "All right, hon," Ugh. "Name please?"

"Uh, Craig Tucker."

"And who are you visiting?"

Aw, crap. "…A spazzy kid."

She stares at me for a moment. "Do you know your schoolmate's name, Craig?"

No hell way am I going to say it. "He's this really spazzy kid! He's got blond hair and looks like he's on Meth! You can't miss him!" I yelled.

She sighs, resisting the urge to yell back at me. "Kid, there are about a thousand patients who are checked in right now. You can't possibly expect me to remember each and every one of them." I glare back at her, then she sighs once again. "But yes, he did start quite a riot when he got here. The '_spazzy kid_', I mean. He had to be given his own room. His name is…" She checks her list. "…Tweak Tweak?"

I nod.

"Room 218. Please sign here." She hands me her pen and I do as told. "Visiting hours end at 6 pm. Have a nice day."

I flip her off and walk away. I use the stairs in going to the 2nd floor, and scan each name plate next to the doors. The spacey rooms have at least 3 or 4 people staying in. And since the patients don't know each other, no communication whatsoever is taking place. And so it's a pretty silent walk. The sound of my footsteps resonate the hall, earning me stares from different people whose doors are wide open.

I personally hate the hospital. Besides its being downright freaky, it also makes me remember the aftermath of the stupid fight with Spaz back then. Another blast from the past. I guess those memories are coming back to haunt me this day. But _why_? God, I hate this.

"215…216…217…218." I mutter. I stare at the closed door and at the name plate beside it. Just Spaz's name. It's at the end of the hall of this wing, so it's most probably a small room.

I reach for the door handle but pause, taking into consideration Spaz's violent reaction if I just enter without warning. Then wondering why I even care, I turn it.

"Excuse me."

I glance to my right and see a doctor heading to my direction. "Are you…" He checks his clipboard. "Craig Tucker?"

"Yes."

"Hi, I'm the doctor assigned to Tweek. Please sign here." He hands me his pen and clipboard. I raise my eyebrow at the blank paper I am staring at. "I'm supposed to sign this?" I ask.

"Yes. I was told to monitor your visits. Your signature on that paper is for authenticity."

"So my school got you into this too, huh?" I murmur as I sign my name, date and time on the paper.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," I say as I return the items.

"I have no idea why they told me to," He says as he stuffed his pen on the pocket of his coat. "And why you particularly. I hope your presence isn't mandatory."

Your hope is crushed, my friend. "Actually, I thought of this." And I can't believe they took that seriously.

"Oh, that's magnificent! I'm happy to know someone wants to visit Tweek." He chuckles.

"What does _that_ mean?" I ask.

"Well, judging by his behavior, it seems the kid doesn't have much friends. Or any at that. And he always expects it to be me whenever I knock on the door. As if he's one hundred percent sure no one would care enough to check on him besides me."

I shrug. It's his fault everyone hates him. He's got no one to blame but himself.

He continues: "Come to think of it, I haven't even seen his parents come to visit him. They might be busy, but it's still rather odd. Maybe they'll be here tomorrow." Doctor, you won't be seeing them at all, as far as I know.

"Anyway, please be careful when you're in there. He's still recovering from the trauma. One negligent move will spring violent fits." He gives me a small wave. "Great to meet you, Craig. And don't forget to approach me before heading home later. You need to sign this paper again."

"Yeah, sure."

And he walks away, leaving me to deal with the Spaz on my own. I sigh and reach for the handle again. But this time, I don't turn it. I let a few seconds pass before letting the knob go and knock on the door.

"_AUGH!_ Yeah?" I hear faintly inside.

I open the door and poke my head inside. I spot Spaz on his bed busily working on the art project due next week. It's the same thing as last week, but it's Partner B's turn to draw a portrait of Partner A. I have no recollection of what happened yesterday in Art (Or in any classes except Guidance.) and so I'm highly curious as to what I look like on the canvas.

Hell, knowing Spaz, it must look like some ancient caveman doodle.

I step inside an close the door behind me, causing him to look up. But once he sees it's me, he shrieks, throwing his arms up to his head and dropping the canvas to the floor.

I roll my eyes and as I was about to tell him off, the drawing catches my attention. I pick it up and my eyes almost shoot out from their sockets when I see the drawing. And the weird thing is…it isn't a bad thing.

"Holy shit on a stick," I hear myself say.

He stops screaming for a brief moment and stares at me questioningly.

"You did _this_?" I couldn't believe it, neither could I tear away my eyes from it. It looked _exactly_ like me, eyes looking sideways in deep thought and cheek resting on the palm of my hand. He didn't follow the instructions (e.g. nothing should be covering the person's face, no hats, person should be facing you, etc.), but if that Arts Teacher will lash out on him, she's _really_ fucked up. "It looks awesome. And I'm not saying that because it's me."

He blinks at me in confusion. "R-really?"

"Yeah, dude." I grab a chair and sit next to his bed, dropping my bag to the floor. "You take lessons?"

"No, it's—_GAH!_—self-educated." He explains. "_ERG!_ I just…one day, I started to draw for no particular reason. I felt really relaxed for the first time ever. It felt…so good. _ACK!_ S-so it became a hobby of mine…"

I nod, still staring at the portrait.

He continues: "Some-sometimes, when I start thinking too much and I freak out, I do art. It always helps me—_NGH!_"

Hold on. That's exactly what _I_ said about…

"Me and my music." I whisper.

I just can't fucking believe this.

The conversation ends at that and we resort to television to break the awkward silence. It's a wonder how cartoons speed up 2 hours. Once the credits of the recently watched cartoon roll, I check my watch and grin. Finally, I get to go home!

"Well, glad that's over." I haul my bag over my shoulder. "See ya."

I don't wait for a response and leave the room immediately. And how convenient is it that I spot the doctor on his way towards the room? I run up to him and sign my name and time on his paper. I do the same thing on the log book at the Information area. After that, I make my way home.

But as I enter my not-so humble abode, I receive a likewise not-so warming welcome.

"There you are!"

My dad pinches my ear hard and I couldn't help but scream in pain, dropping my bag as he drags me to the Living Room where my mom stands glaring at me. I even catch a glimpse of Ruby up the stairs and watching the whole scene in shock.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" I yell at him as he released his grip.

"We're _not_ going to go poor and go on welfare just because you did something _stupid_ again, kid!" He yells back. "You're goddamn lucky those motherfuckers didn't have us pay for that possessed kid's hospital bills like last time!"

"My name's _Craig_, something _you_, the worst excuse for a father, should know!" I reply. "And I keep _telling_ everyone, I didn't do it!"

"The mere fact that you were there when it happened, plus your '_criminal record_' makes you the most likely suspect!"

"Then lets overlook my notoriety! For once, just _be_ that lie you two are every time you step out of this house and actually listen to your _son._"

Silence. And for a moment, I find myself hoping that they really have space in their—if they do have them—hearts for the child they brought up. But the collision of his fist to my chest says that he took it as a foolish suggestion. Karma is such an amazing thing, isn't it?

**~.::.~**

"There he is!"

Ah, déjà vu. How charming.

I stop rubbing my eyes for a second and look up. I see Clyde waving to me with Token by his side. I lift my hand to give a small effortless wave and yawn.

Once they approach me, Token asks: "How are you?"

I sigh. "I'm fine."

"And how was it with Spaz?" Clyde questions.

I do my best to shrug. "Okay." I open my locker door and get my needed books. Clyde and Token stare at me with confused looks.

"What happened to _you_?" Token puts his hand on my shoulder. "Did the insanity take control of you while you were there?"

"What are you talking about?" I ask almost inaudibly.

"We kinda expected _more_ than a shrug, Craig. _More_ meaning what you would do _normally_." Clyde tells me.

"Like banging my head on the lockers?" I brush my thumb on the numbers lazily, managing to change only one number. Ah, good enough. "I swear, if I do that one more time I'll be having that brain damage you're accusing me of possessing."

"Come on," Clyde presses. "We already let you slip on the Guidance incident. This we _have_ to know."

"Why are you making such a big deal out of this? So what if I shrugged? I'm really tired, you guys." I massage my temples out of annoyance.

I hear the two sigh. "All right, sorry." Token says. "It's just that the whole thing that happened in Guidance class got to our heads. And because we let it go without proper explanation, well…"

"Yeah, I get it." I tell them, rubbing my eyes and suppressing a yawn. "Let's just go." I hold my books up to my chest in a faggy fashion to protect my bruise and head on to my first class.

It isn't a lie, what I had told them earlier. I really am tired. Apparently, my psycho dad punched me in the chest last night while my psycho mom watched. I have never felt a punch like that in ages. Being me has its benefits, and one of those benefits is not being summoned to a fist fight of any sort because, well, they all know who'll be crowned victorious. And the only time I throw the first blow would be to anyone who calls for it (a.k.a. Cartman) and those who would dare throw one back would wake up in Emergency Rooms with no recollection of what they had just gotten themselves into but with a voice inside of them swearing to never cross paths with me again. So the pain from the punch had me staying up all night. I couldn't even eat dinner because there _was_ none. But even if there was, I wouldn't eat it with _them_. And I had trouble getting ready for school too. Moving my arms proved troublesome and my sleep deprivation is taking its toll on me.

I couldn't focus at all in class. It would help if the room would stop spinning and if everyone would stop speaking gibberish so loudly. Dozing off also seems impossible because one small slump would cause my entire torso to sting, and I would feel as if I drank thirty cups of espresso. Although I'm able to walk almost normally, every step I take would bring me to the brink of vomit. Thank god I haven't fallen in yet.

Everyone noticed my fatigue and asked me if I was all right. I was able to mutter an "I'm fine." but answering Clyde's or Token's or Kyle's or anyone's inquiries on the reason behind my weariness earning just a wave of a hand or a painful shrug of the shoulders.

They tried to convince me to head towards the Nurse's Office to rest, but obviously I refused because no way in hell would I want to be sent home where _they_ could still be at as of that moment. My dad at most times works in his study. Other times, he'd be out, leaving in the early morning and arriving late at night. My mom, on the other hand, is like the other parents: leaving in the morning, arriving in the afternoon. But I have no idea what their jobs are, and neither does Ruby. Once, I had this school assignment that required us to know what our parents jobs are. At that time, I knew perfectly well that those two aren't the approachable kind of parents so I made something up. There was also a time when I had to bring at least one of my parents to school to talk about their jobs and what they do, but I never told them. They found out sooner or later, but they pretended they never knew about it. I had to be the one to speak up on behalf of them both and, you guessed it, I lied again. So I never got to know the truth.

Lunch time comes and I immediately order two helpings of the main meal, something Chef doesn't mind at all. That earns him some complaining from Cartman who never gets to order that much. Everyone on the table watches me as I wolf down the 2 slices of pizza on my plate faster than a rabid dog would. Token seems pretty disgusted by the sight and loses his appetite. He pushes his plate near me and I gobble that up as well.

"He looks like a zombie, dude," Kyle comments.

"Did he take drugs or something?" Stan asks.

"Shut up, guys," Clyde says to them. Then he turns to me. "Dude, Craig, you look _so_ sick, you're eating like a homeless man who just got his first piece of bread in ages, and you've been hugging yourself the whole day. Why can't you tell us what's wrong?"

"'S none of your business, Clyde." I tell him, rubbing my temples.

"_Butters_?"

"…is a fag," I say immediately. Now what did I say that for?

"No, dude," Clyde says. "You just called me _Butters_. What the fuck?"

"I did?" Oh my god, it's worse than I thought. He soon drops it and they all switch subjects. I couldn't understand, of course, for I'm too busy trying to keep myself together.

The second half of the day isn't any different from the first. Same pain, same gibberish, some blur. It's when the dismissal bell rings that I feel so amazed with myself by how far I've gone in this fucked up state. But my day isn't over just yet. I still have to get to the hospital, hopefully in one piece.

I do my best to keep my focus on where I'm walking, but if I couldn't understand a thing while in class, what more when I'm on the street where danger is close by? But thank god for horns because without them, I wouldn't have woken up from a daze in the middle of the road and blocking a Ferrari's way. Eventually, I reach the hospital and I head to the Information Area. I sign my name on the log sheet and I go up the stairs, stumbling here and there a bit. Then I make my way towards Spaz's room where the doctor from yesterday is now standing outside of.

"Hey, Craig," he greets. "Are you okay?"

"Fine…" I say as I sign on his blank paper. I then flip him off (or try to, at least) and enter the room, dropping instantly to the chair beside the bed. But I sit up straight, arms resting on the support, as soon as my chest stings. I hate this fucking bruise. Silence takes over as Spaz stares at me with a…I have no idea what look. I'm just so tired. And mad. And sick.

"Are you…" he starts. He twitches and yells his '_GAH_'s and '_ACK_'s and whatnot.

"Out with it…" I murmur.

He lets out whimpers, unsure whether to tell me or not. I draw out a long sigh and kick the side of the bed hard, causing me to let out a gasp when I feel the pain again. Spaz yelps and blurts out: "C-Coffee!"

I raise my eyebrow it this. "You want coffee?" Of course he does. "Uh, no."

"_WHAT?! WHY NOT?!_" He instantly screamed. As the actions are fully processed in his mind, he covers his mouth and wears a horrified expression. "Oh jesus! I-I didn't mean to..._ERG!_"

"Shut up, Spaz." I tell him simply. But how will I put this? "I'm not giving you coffee. Don't you know that's the main reason why you're a fucked up freak?"

"Bu-But I l-like coffee…"

"I don't give a flying fuck if you like coffee. '_Like_' isn't even the appropriate word! It's '_Addicted_'. And your parents gave you that shit because they _knew_ you'd have health problems."

Crap. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. I fucking hate not thinking properly.

"…I know."

What?

"But…but what can I do—_UGH!—_I've grown completely dependent on it! It calms me down three times as much as Art does! _GAH!_ And-And if I d-don't get my coffee—_JESUS!—_I…I…I…_EEEEERG!_" He starts to pull his hair, head tucked in between his knees.

I couldn't say anything. I've seen how he is when he doesn't get his daily dose of coffee. And I swear not to repeat my action ever again—at least, not when I'm in the same room with him.

God, maybe I shouldn't stress him. If he won't be released soon, it's gonna be a pain to go back to this place until he does. But _god_ I don't feel so good. What the fuck am I gonna do…?

Oh, Jesus Christ, yes.

"You wanna run?" I ask.

He seizes his freaking out for a moment but maintains his position. I then hear him mumble something incomprehensible.

I lean forward. "What did you say?"

He lifts his head and drop his hands to his sides. "I want to run…"

"Yeah, I thought so."

So we get up and head to the garden that is within the Hospital Grounds. It's there for patients who would want to get some fresh air. It's placed in the middle of the main building—the building where all the rooms for patients are located—and the building with all the clinics, emergency rooms and stuff. I wouldn't call it big, but it isn't that small either. When we get there, I happen to spot Mrs. McCormick on a wheelchair that Mr. McCormick is pushing towards the other building. Looks like Kenny's mom is pregnant again.

I sit on the bench, taking careful note _not_ to do so in a rash manner that would earn me chest pains again. Spaz stares at the garden, possibly to decide on the route. Once he's ready, he dashes away in a blink of an eye. I would be shocked, but it doesn't give me much impact in this zombie-like state. But I catch a glimpse of his face. And this time, I know what look it is. Despite his rate, despite my almost blurry eyesight, despite my hatred of looking at his disgusted face…

…I see his lips curved upwards into a small smile.

I have _never_ seen him smile like that. Hell, I've never seen him smile at all. It stuns me more than his speed.

"How 'ya feeling?" I ask.

"_GAH!_ Great!" He replies.

He seems so relaxed. I wish I could feel that way too. "You know what?" I murmur. "I wanna bike. Back to Middle Park."

I close my eyes for a moment. Just thinking about the breeze through my hair, being alone, the feeling of freedom. I want to get away from it all. I don't want to see my parents. I don't want to see the fatass. I don't want to see anyone at all.

"It's that feeling." I think I whisper to myself. "Freedom."

And everything goes black.

**~.::.~**

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the night sky. No, there are no stars. Just… blackness. I guess I fell asleep on the bench. I blink for a few times before turning my attention towards the cold wet thing on my chest. I lift my head, groaning as I do, to look at what's on it.

"_ACK!_" I hear from the side and I see Spaz seated on the ground and staring at me. "J-Jesus…"

"What is this?" I groggily ask, referring to the cold wet thing.

"_Erg!_ That's ice…" He answers.

"Why the fuck do I have ice on my chest?"

"_GAH!_ Be-because you have a bruise! _ACK!_" He yelps, pulling on the hem of his shirt. My eyes widen a bit. "How the hell…?"

He gulps. "I-I saw how you moved—_UGH!_—and it's exactly how I move whe-when I have a b-bruise."

I stay silent, mentally urging him to go on.

"And y-you fell asleep—_ERG!—_s-so I lay you down on the bench and I ran to the cafeteria to get you ice then I put it on your chest and I sat down here the entire time you were asleep except when the ice melted so I kept going back to the cafeteria to get you new ice and people kept staring and asking me questions and _ARGH! THE PRESSURE!_" He screams as he pulls his hair.

"Calm down!" I seethe. He bites his lip and twitches. After taking the ice bag away from my chest, I sigh. "Help me up."

He instantly jumps to his feet and pulls on my arm. I sit up and rub my eyes. At least I'm feeling better now. Plus the pain on my chest isn't that much anymore. After I yawn and check the time on my watch (about 5 minutes 'til 6 pm), I tell him: "Let's go back to the room." I snatch my hat that he made me use as a pillow and head back to his ward. When we get there, the doctor yells a "There you are!" and asks me where we have been. I reply with a nonchalant "Just went to get some fresh air." which I think he buys despite is vagueness. I sign my name and time again on the paper as Spaz goes back in his room. But before I leave, I poke my head through the door and call out his…_nick_name. He looks at me questioningly and I sigh.

"…Thanks," I mutter. It feels weird, hearing that word coming out of my mouth and addressed to Spaz. I thought this day would never come. Oh, but I've always thought me and Spaz hanging out would never _ever_ come, but what's going on right now?

He seems rather surprised just as I am at the moment. But I don't wait for a response, close the door and head home.

**~.::.~**

Regardless of my little nap yesterday, I fell on my bed and slept as soon as I got home from the hospital. I didn't get to eat dinner again, which probably pissed Ruby off (or scared her, maybe) but she should understand the situation I'm going through.

In my sleep, I dreamt of dozens of weird things. Weird, _crazy_ things that I don't even want to look back upon. It was all random shit with no storyline. It made me feel even more sick, just going through that mental movie.

But I guess it helped, sort of. Because when I awake, I feel much _much_ better, as if that was all I needed: sleep. Which, in this case, it is. I can still feel that chest pain, but that's normal. After staring at the ceiling for five minutes, I turn my head to the side and look at the clock. Whoa, 11:48 am? 16 hours. Amazing. I pick my cell phone up and am surprised by all the messages I have received. All from both Clyde and Token.

'_wer r u?_' The first message from Clyde says, followed by a '_u ok?_' And I'm guessing he thought his crap of a phone didn't get to send his texts so he asked Token to help him out. '_Are you sick? Where are you?_' his message read. After which: '_Okay, take care of yourself. We'll visit you after school._'

I sigh as I place my phone back down on the side table, debating whether or not to stay here lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling. I then realize that there is one way to find out. So I rise from my bed and head for the door, opening it and listening closely. The house is silent, but a little concentration have me picking up sound from a room close to mine. The faint noise comes from the Study where my dad, as I have found out just now, is working in. And of course, I wouldn't want to stay in this house with that guy so I get myself ready for school.

After finishing up, I grab my bag and get on out of this wretched place. Upon arriving at the School grounds, I head straight for the cafeteria where they are most probably in as I speak. And it comes to a shock to them as they spot me nearing the table unzombified. I am likewise startled to see Kenny among the 6 eating the lunch courtesy of Chef. I then explain to them how I slept in, but I only shrug when they question me about not staying home instead. The next two hours fly by so quickly with me not understanding a single thing the teachers say.

Dismissal bell rings and I walk to my locker. Clyde and Token sneak up behind me and invite me to hangout.

"Can't," I tell them. "I have club."

"After club, idiot," Token answers.

I shake my head. "I still have to go to the hospital."

"Dude," Clyde says. "Visiting hours are like until 6! And your club ends at what time? 5:15 pm. Then changing and travelling time takes about 30 minutes. That'll leave you with just 15 minutes with the freak! Just skip it."

I consider this. "Yeah, but I've gotten into a lot of trouble already."

He rolls his eyes. "You're the guy who said you'd '_prance around a flower field with his chopped up body in a basket_'."

I sigh, closing my locker door. "Look, guys, Tweek'll be out soon anyway. He's getting better, so chill out."

Token and Clyde look at each other with puzzled faces.

"Oh yeah?" Token says. "Maybe you should check yourself in after he's released."

"Why?"

"Craig. You just called him '_Tweek_'."

**~.::.~**

Dribble. Throw. Miss. Retrieve. Repeat.

It's just the slip of the tongue. Nothing I should make a big deal of. People make accidents all the time, right? But, _god, _why did I say that? The freakiness must have rubbed off him and on me. I knew bad things would come from spending time with Spaz.

But strangely, I don't seem so bothered by it like I expected myself to be. I should have gargled Listerine for saying such a vile word, even attempt to cut my tongue off for that. But thinking about those self-inflicting punishments make me see myself as such an immature and overreacting being. Why should I think such over an accident? If it really was an accident. Wait, what? What did I just say? Of course it was an accident! Saying Tweek's name is what it is: a slip of the tongue. Oh crap, I just said it again, didn't I? Argh! Anyway, this doesn't change the fact that I'm going to see him. As far as I know, people only last 2 or 3 days at least in the hospital. So may attend this last one.

So after all the practicing and exercises and shit, club ends with me being assigned to return all the balls back to the basket and into the Stock Room. After that, I wipe my sweat off, take a quick shower and put my normal clothes on. Do I still have time? Yeah, 30 minutes to spare. Clyde can do the math pretty well, haha.

I make my way to Hell's Pass, orange light illuminating the streets as the sun sets to make way for night. When I arrive at the room, the doctor is in it, talking to Tweek.

"Oh, Craig, you've made it!" He says to me as I close the door behind me.

"Yeah. I had club." I explain, drawing closer to them both. "Do I need to sign anything?"

"Yeah, here," he hands me his clipboard and pen. "One is enough."

I do as told. After that, he tells me about Tweek's release tomorrow morning. He seems happy, yet I fail to see the joy in that statement. It's really a shame that he has to go home to those two psychos. I should be _so _happy. I could care less. But somehow, those two options don't feel at all right to do. When he leaves, I take a seat on the chair.

"So tonight's your last night," I begin. "I guess that means I don't have to walk for 15 minutes more or less here everyday."

He twitches. "I'm happy to go."

I am taken aback by this. "Are you for real?"

"_GAH!_" He yelps involuntarily. "I mean—it's just—I-I hate the hospital."

"Let me guess. Is it the hospital smell? The fluorescent lights everywhere? The fact that everything is white? Because people die here all the time and a ghost could be watching you as you sleep?"

He screamed for me to stop. I think it's that last one that got to him. I press on. "Then what is it?"

He stays silent.

"Come on, out with it!"

"C-Cause it makes me remember." He mumbles.

"Remember what?"

He looks away and sighs. And it takes me a while to process everything in my mind.

"…Oh." I say as the scene flashes over and over again in my head.

He attacking me in my bed. I pushing him to the floor to pound him. The nurses rushing in. The drug injected to me. My words before I pass out.

"_I hate you!"_ The sentence resonates in my mind.

…My. This is awkward.

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **He didn't really notice that he said Tweek's name again. Isn't that cute.


	11. Great and Dense Expectations

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I say the same thing in every chapter.

**Author's Note:** I'm not dead. :) Long chapter to compensate my silence.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Great (and Dense) Expectations**

I'm starting to think that this will become routine—that is to say, arriving home, heading straight for the freezer to get a bag of ice then locking myself in my room until I fall asleep only to wake up in the middle of the night to eat '_dinner_' and falling asleep again. That's how it's been going and will go until the whole bruise is gone. They don't make contact with me in any way so far after the incident, but I still have to stay on guard.

As I fish my keys out from my pocket and fiddle with the lock, Ruby walks up to me and stares. Normally, I would ignore her but Ruby staring at me with a face that depicts neither annoyance nor skepticism nor '_what the fuck are you doing?_' isn't what I would call normal. So I look at her and ask: "What?"

"Uhm," she starts. "Can I talk to you?"

"You aren't mute, so yeah unfortunately," I answer back, swinging the door open.

She scrunches up her tiny nose. "_May_ I talk to you?"

"_Why_?" I enter the room and drop my bag on the floor.

"'Cause…" She trails off. Either that or I couldn't hear her mumbled words. I place my keys on the bedside table and take off my jacket. "Because what? Fine, fine. Just lock the door, okay?"

She does as told while I take my shirt off and lie on my bed to place the ice bag on my chest. When she turns around to face me, she cringes at the sight of either my bare torso or my bruised chest. Maybe both. "So, what's up bitch?" I ask, closing my eyes in relaxation.

She breathes out and sits on the edge of the bed, I think. "I'm…uh…that bruise…on your chest…I'm…"

"Come on," I say rather impatiently. I feel like I've urged a lot of people to go on with their sentences countless of times already. I dunno, just a feeling. "And stop stuttering. I can't understand a single word you're saying."

"I've never seen dad so mad before," she quietly says. "I mean—they don't really _care_ about us, right? So why did he…?"

I sigh. It's a complicated story to tell, really. "It's true, he doesn't give a shit about us. He and mom only think about what's best for _them_ and what makes _them_ happy. And if there's something _we_ do that affects them in any way, however great or small, they get really pissed off that we're ruining things for them." I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. "Years ago, there was this group of kids who made a bet among themselves on who would win in a fight: me or this other kid. Whoever won would prove that he is the biggest troublemaker in class. At first, we didn't want to fight each other. There was no reason to. But Stan and those guys just kept spouting lies to aggravate us and _fight_. It was…it really…I don't know how to describe it. But we both ended up in the hospital. Then we started to fight again and everyone thought _I_ started it and _argh!_" I slam my palm on the wall. There's a short pause for me to catch my breath before continuing: "Mom and dad had to pay for _his_ medical bill. It almost got us poor. You remember that, don't you?"

"Yeah," she says. "So…whatever it is you got into…they just don't want it happening again, right?"

I sigh. Ruby looks at me and says: "Sometimes I wonder why they didn't just abort us or something."

I furrow my eyebrows and glare at her. I didn't know what to say. Truth be told, that thought came across my mind once or twice. But I would drop it instantly because even though I try to contemplate on the subject, I would end up with answers that may or may not be the real reason. And I dislike believing in half-true or not-true-at-all statements as real and concrete conclusions.

"Maybe they thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing," I tell her. "Until I got out." Just a simple speculation that seems absurd for me, but I hope it would lighten the mood up a bit.

Ruby giggles, but only for second. I gaze upon her, her eyes staring at her toes that curl and uncurl in uneasiness. I clear my throat and say: "Hey, you're safe in this one. I'm sure of it. I don't hear many stories about abusive dads hitting their daughters, really. As long as they have older bros, I guess." I laugh. She doesn't. "Don't worry, kid. I can take him. He'll write his Last Will and Testament soon enough."

I manage to sit up and flash her a toothy grin. Something I have never done before. She blinks and lets a small tear roll down her face. My smile disappears and I reach out to tousle her red pigtailed hair. "Look, if he dares lay a hand on you, I swear I'm going to gouge his eyes out no matter what the price. I got your back."

She waves her hand dismissively. "Whatever." And standing up, she continues: "And if you think this heartfelt conversation is going to end in a warm sibling hug, then go screw yourself over, faggot."

I glower at her and flip her off with both hands. "Fucking bitch!"

She sticks out her tongue and returns the gesture, giggling. Then she stops and cocks her head to the side and stares at my bedside table. "What's that?" She extends her arm and points at my Biology project.

"Some school project," I answer.

"_You_ made _that_?"

"Yeah, I'm made of awesome for making something like that and your argument is invalid," I laugh. "Prepare yourself for High School, kid. You have to face assholic teachers like mine."

She rolls her eyes. "That won't be anytime soon, will it?"

"Yeah. Mold yourself into some whore and _then_ you'll be ready." I laugh out loud and she flips me off once more, leaving the room in a huff. My laughter dies down after a moment and I stare at the project neatly and safely placed beside my alarm clock. I poke it a few times. I guess I should bring it to _Color Me Prime_ again. This time, I should pay. Tweek paid for last time. And—

_What the fuck am I saying?_

I groan and bury my face on my pillow. This has been a very weird day. I need to sleep. But what seemed to be just a five-second span of eyes shut turned out to be a long thirteen-hour slumber with nothing but blackness and emptiness as a dream. The bright morning sunlight shines through the blinds of the window, and I am thankful that I at least did not awake with light burning my drowsy eyes.

Yawning, I rub the crud out of my eyes and scratch my head. I lay there staring at the ceiling for five more minutes before kicking the sheets off my body. As I sit up, I feel the pang of hunger, and then I remember that I dozed off last night so quickly and did not wake at ass o'clock to eat '_dinner_'.

I groan and grab the shirt I forgot to put back on, then head towards the bathroom to check on my bruise. Good, I tell myself, it doesn't hurt anymore when I poke it. I wear my shirt and proceed to the kitchen to grab random food to eat. I open the refrigerator door with much force and click my tongue when I find no plates wrapped in plastic or foil signifying it being a left-over from last night. I slam the door shut—hunger is a _bitch_—and search through the cabinets for at least one decent thing to eat. I pass by the sink and raise my eyebrows as I spot empty and soiled foil containers stacked not so orderly inside it. I lift the cover and—_shit, a cockroach_—read it: _Hungry-Man Buffalo Style Chicken Strips._

They ate TV dinner? God, that woman's starting to get cheaper and cheaper as the days pass. At least it has a free brownie.

I wonder if there's one more pack for me. I check the freezer and feel a smile come to me as my eyes lie upon a meal intended for me. At least they cared enough to not feed it to some stray dog outside our home. I pull it out and—is this a post-it?

_Craig,_

_They were about to feed it to a random cat outside our home. You're welcome._

_Ruby_

…a cat. Okay. They were about to give it to some stray cat.

I roll my eyes and shove it inside the microwave to heat it up. As it is slowly cooking, I get myself a glass of orange juice and head to the living room to turn the television on—for what else would be the cause of calling it TV dinner? I surf the channels in search for something good and wonder again why only the interesting ones are broadcasted either _very_ early or _very_ late. _Red Racer_ and _The Terrence and Philipp Show_ were the exceptions then. Come to think of it, the shows of yesterday proved better than the shows of this generation. But, of course, times are changing.

Gone are the childhood heroes worthy of looking up to—like Red Racer—replaced by peppy teens. Peppy teens who sing nonsense songs. Peppy teens who sing nonsense songs that cause you brain damage and ear infection. Peppy teens whose songs are more confusing than _Empire of the Sun_'s music video for _Standing on the Shore_. I can't even believe I compared the band to something so unworthy of such a comparison and contrast.

But what am I doing, wasting my breath, or rather, brain cells, thinking about this worthless revelation?

As if on cue, the microwave timer buzzes and I become aware of my hunger once again. I turn the TV off and fetch my breakfast. I push the '_open_' button and, without much thought, reach for it. And you'd wonder why and how my stupidity took control over and mind, then perhaps laugh at me in mockery as I scream in both pain and surprise. Well, in my most polite way, I'd tell you to chop off your fucking dick, shove it in your fucking mouth and sew your fucking lips shut.

"Goddamnit, fucking Christ!" I yell as I squeeze my burnt hand tightly. Seething, I reach for the faucet knob and place my hand through the running water. I sigh, and then I check my wrist watch for the time. _9:07 a.m._ Does Harbucks open early on Saturdays, I wonder?

Oh shit, did I just think about Tweek again? Gotta kick that freshman's ass on Monday.

I groan as I turn the tap off, then shake off the excess water. My eyes fall upon my reddish fingers and I mentally kick myself upside the head once again. I then search for an oven mitt—fucking hell, it was on top of the oven all along?!—and use it to take the tray out. I carefully remove the lid and grin widely at the satisfying meal before me. She should really buy TV dinner all the time!

After getting myself utensils, I proceed to the living room to continue my channel surfing. Having nothing to watch, I switch to my last resort: MTV. It shouldn't be called '_my last resort_', in fact, because I always end up watching it. And if I was lucky, I would catch the music videos and not those lame shows like that one with some blonde chick with the dog looking for a BFF or that one where people show off their '_kick-ass_' homes.

Number one: my god, she's desperate.

Number two: who fucking cares about the three mini-TVs above your Flat screen in your living room? Doesn't that just make people hate you for not using your wealth and time to donate to charity? Thank god Token hasn't been featured. Yet.

And so I spend my time eating my breakfast and rubbing my numb fingers against the cold glass of orange juice while watching hip hop videos that has dominated the music industry since I don't know hell when and has become all too mainstream for my taste. You can't imagine the surprise I had when a Christmas song played between a Chris Brown and a Flo Rida video. My god.

Now, licking my fingers clean of the chocolate from the brownie, I check my watch once again and discover that an hour has passed. Jesus Christ, I ate _that_ slow? Ah well, I have nothing to do today anyways. Well, except tend to the project. And whatever homework I have to do today. But I decide to skip the latter and prioritize the first. Why? I have no fucking idea.

Well if I'm going to keep up this weird state of being that could have resulted to the countless of sleepless nights I had, my burnt fingers and this seriously defunct family I have just realized and cared I have, then I should get a move on and act on my impulse. So I'm going to get myself ready to leave for Harbucks.

Jesus, I don't make sense at all.

**~.::.~**

You know it sucks if you don't have a heater for your shower when you live in South Park. You swing the door open and let a draft smack you right in the face, then you shiver all over the place as you walk, then you constantly check your hands in fear of being frostbitten, then you could feel the chattering of your teeth, and for a moment, you feel as if you've gone out without putting your glasses on even though you have perfect 20/20 vision.

And then you think—and you can't even believe you had the ability to think at that state: _OH MY GOD_.

But I congratulate myself in the end for not dying on my way to Harbucks. I just wish I had dried my hair more, so I wouldn't have been at that risk.

Hah. I say that and yet I'm here standing outside Harbucks debating whether or not I should go in.

I wipe a spot on the window and check if he is inside. I could vaguely see him wiping the tables with a mop—what the fuck, a mop? God, what I freak! I clear my throat and breathe out. That may have discouraged me a bit, but I have made my choice clear: I'm going in.

(I mean, come on, it's freezing out here!)

I push the door open and quickly close it behind me. I sigh as I feel my body warming once again. I hear a loud shriek of surprise and I roll my eyes as I say, "Yeah, hello to you too."

I look at him and cock my head to the side when I see that he had slipped on the floor and had broken his mop. From the side, I spot his coworkers snickering at his misfortune. I glare at them then help Tweek up. "And why the heck you were _mopping_ a table?"

He twitches and starts pulling his hair. "Th-They t-told me to—_ARGH!_" He points to the group still conversing amongst themselves about, perhaps, what a freak Tweek is. I ask then, "and _why_ did you do it?"

"I needed to clean! _AUGH!_ It's my job! _GAH!_" He screams. I stare at him and sigh at his pathetic state. Then I question myself why it is pity I am feeling when I did things far worse than this.

"Why are you here?" His inquiry breaks my trance, and I find no words to explain what I was really doing here _talking_ to someone I seriously loathed for a long period of time.

"Uh," I start. Then I dig inside my sling bag to retrieve the mug I had done for our project. His eyes widen, and I feel a sense of triumph and pride as I show it off. "I also managed to take pictures now. So I was thinking if we could work on it again?"

Now his eyes shift to stare at me with much confusion and surprise. I sneer at him and say, "Don't look at me like that! You're the artist! I'll make it look like shit. So come on, or I'll hit you—" I stop midsentence, then click my tongue before grabbing his apron to pull him out of the Coffee Shop, pretending not to hear his cries of protest.

"NO—_GAH!—_DAD'S GOING TO GET M-MAD AT ME! _AUGH!_ _JESUS!_ NO, STOP! I N-NEED TO TELL—_ACK!—_HIM FIRST!"

"Trust me, he won't mind," I whisper inaudibly.

We enter _Color Me Prime_ and he manages to calm himself down. The man by the counter sees us and greets, "you two again?" He stands up and scratches his side. "Well, as long as I get profit from this." He stretches out his hand in anticipation.

I look at Tweek as he fishes out money from his pockets to give to the owner. I then take my place at the table and stare at the mug. Tweek joins me a few seconds later, and I gently push it towards him. "Do your magic, dude."

"W-what?! I—_GAH!_—d-don't…don't…" He twitches.

"Come on, you're the '_artist_'." I say, fingering the air quotes. "So you paint it."

He gulps and wrings his fingers in embarrassment. "I-I—_JESUS!_—There's too much pressure! _GAH!_"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair—and in the process, taking my hat off—as I raise the middle finger at him.

Then I pause and stare at the vulgar gesture as if it is a revelation right in front of my eyes. "That's it."

He calms down as he cocks his head to the side in question.

"_This_," I tell him, nearing my finger close to his face. He blinks and twitches, then shifts his eyes to stare at me as if I am mad. "Why not? It's the _perfect_ design for our project! We could even give it as a Christmas present to Sr. Shitter," I laugh at my assholicity. God, he'll love that for sure.

He twitches and tugs on his apron. "_What?_" He points at my finger. "Are you—_Nng!_—serious?"

I shrug and get up from the table. "Well, if you don't like it, then why don't you think of a better idea while I go ransack the paint bottles?" I leave him to his twitchy self, ignoring his constant bouts of too much pressure as I stare at the dozens of tubes and their respective sample tiles. I honestly cannot picture the end result, and all the more the colors that would complement each other perfectly. So with a heavy sigh, I grab all the bottles I could hold onto and retreat to the table.

He pounces back, mug in hand, in a jolt when I drop everything to the surface. I give him a wry smile and take my seat. "So, get to it then." He bites his bottom lip and shoots me what seems to be a glare. He places the mug down, takes off his Harbucks apron and sits. He lifts the brush up and spins it around his fingers, trying to stare down the project as if willing it to explode using his mind. I get distracted by the paintbrush spin show and bring myself to ask: "What the hell are you doing?"

He gives me a sideways glance. "Visualizing."

"That's how you visualize?" I ask, amused grin plastered onto my face.

"I'm restless."

"As I've gathered for the past—" I look up to the ceiling, calculating in my head. "—12 years?"

He reaches for bottles now, inspecting each one carefully. I click my tongue and stare at the folly of my actions. "I've just realized how hard it's going to be to put them back at their right places."

"Even harder to know which one we need to use," he says constantly gripping at bottles, giving them a closer look and then setting them down at the floor until two tubes are left. He heaves a sigh and I lift my eyebrows questioningly.

"Pick one, blue or green?"

I snort and bite back a sarcastic remark. "If you ask me, you should know I'd choose blue."

"I know," he says in a whisper. All of a sudden, he starts shifting from a calm and focused person into a stuttering spaz. "But if it were up to me, I'd be choosing green, and I wasn't sure if you'd like that color, so I looked for the right blue just in case—you know, that shade you always wear—but I really wanted green, so I asked you even though I knew you'd choose blue, and I just needed to get away from all this pressure and—_OH GOD, THE PRESSURE—_"

To save myself from a massive headache and the possibility of watching Tweek have a complete breakdown, or worse, have him explode into a disgusting mess, I quickly—by that, I mean without much thought whatsoever—push his shoulders, causing him to stumble backwards from his chair to the floor.

He twitches and stares at me with his big brown eyes, blinking all too fast. I click my tongue, mentally kicking myself in the ass. I hurriedly crouch beside him and help him up gently, perhaps making up for the rashness. "Sorry," I mutter sincerely. "You want me to get ice from Harbucks?"

He shakes his head as he takes his seat. I raise an eyebrow. "Doesn't it hurt?"

He glances towards me for half a second. He murmurs something almost impossible for me to hear. "I'm used to it."

I sigh and, avoiding any further discussion, take my seat. I then tap a beat on the table, drowning out my thoughts. Sometimes, it worked that way, but only if I considered the situation too public for a sudden belt out of a song. Once I've blocked out unnecessary thoughts, I turn to him and ask: "Why don't you just use both?"

"What?" He asks, tugging on his hair before pulling a face. "They don't blend well."

I shrug. "Worth a try. Can you use a different shade?"

Tweek scoops up the entire pile of bottles on the floor and searches for the right colors. I pick up the mug too keep it safe from accidentally falling off from all the fuss he's making and stare at it for a while. "Why do they hate you…?" My eyes widen at the sudden question that has escaped from my lips.

He looks up and twitches. "What?"

"Aren't you the son of their boss?" I clear my throat, then give him a sideways glance. "You should be the last person on their black book."

He shrugs and tucks his hair behind his ear to inspect two paint bottles up close. "That doesn't really matter to them."

_Right, because apparently, your dad doesn't give a shit about you, so why should they? _Why did you have to ask, Craig?

"Here," he places the bottles down before spinning his paintbrush around his fingers once more.

Rather than help him '_visualize_', I pop a question with no hesitation whatsoever. "Don't you know how to box?"

And perhaps I shouldn't have asked it when I witness the snapping of the brush into two in his hand. He bites his lip and draws out a small amount of blood.

"Hey," I call out, patting him on the shoulder. "No need to overreact. Jesus Christ, snap out of it!"

He shakes his head and picks up another brush on the table. "Let's—Let's just get to this…"

I breathe out and lean closer to the table. He opens the lid of the bottle and squirts blue paint out. Dabbing the brush with it, he gets ready to do his artsy magic, but stops midair where he begins to shake and twitch. I ignore this and keep staring. But no later did he start grabbing his blond hair and yelling out: "Gah! Too much pressure!"

"What, I wasn't doing anything!"

"Just—" He sighs. "Just stop _staring_!"

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"_GAH!_ I don't know! _ERG!_"

I groan and throw my head backwards to stare at the ceiling. I'd like to talk during awkward moments. I sometimes feel as if I'm the one saving the world from gay babies.

No, don't take that as an offense. There has been a running joke about how '_In every awkward silence, a gay baby is born_'. I have no clue where it originated. Basically, it stuck. Not once have any of us failed to mutter the words '_gay baby_' whenever the awkwardness comes. It's starting to become a habit.

"Oh wait, I just remembered something." I dig into my bag and bring out my camera. "Gotta take pictures. Thank you, Token."

Tweek freezes and starts hyperventilating. I frown, "What's up? It's for the stupid project, not for publicity." I focus the camera at the right angle. "Unless, you know, you have some sort of camera phobia. If there is one." I press the button, smiling inwardly as the image appears at the screen. "Or if it's your not being so photogenic…"

He gulps. "That and…" I look at him, showing that he's got my full attention. He sighs. "I've had bad experiences with cameras."

"Reasonable enough an excuse," I snicker. I took a few more shots before letting boredom overwhelm me. He try observing his every move; his focused gaze upon the mug, his swift hand motions as he paints over it and, most importantly, his calm state. I'd hate to break that heavy concentration.

…Nah, just kidding.

"Can I talk?" I ask. "Hope it's not _pressuring_ you."

I received a twitch as a reply.

Works for me. "All right, then, tell me about those dicks you work with." I sit up straight before continuing, "Gives me more reason to understand exactly _why_ you agreed to mop a table—and I ain't letting that go just yet."

"They always do that," he says, painting over the entire mug blue with much expertise. "You want me to beat them up?" I propose. He shoots me a look of surprise and yells out a firm '_no_'.

"Why not?" It's an honest question.

"Why'd you want to—_ERG!_—do that?" He holds out his hand, beckoning for the hair dryer.

I shrug. "Why'd you work there, anyway?" I ask as I hand it over, making sure it is plugged. "Can't be for the money. Unless your dad hates you _that_ much to _not_ give you your daily allowance. Is it something to keep you occupied, rather than go out with girls or lose your mind over Arcade games?"

His reply is drowned out by the loud whirring of the dryer, and I couldn't quite make out what he said. "Could you run that by me again?"

He turns it off and stares at the blue mug. "He wanted me to."

I scoff. "He just wanted you to." He nods. "And did you have any say in this?"

"He's my dad. I'll do anything." His voice trails off for a bit and stares into space for perhaps a split second before grabbing the next paint bottle.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'll classify that as child labor." Surprisingly, I note the seriousness in my voice. Hell knows if I was trying to be so.

He retorts, painting alphanumeric symbols onto the mug. "I never said I didn't want to."

I lift my eyebrow quizzically at him, then I chuckle once realization hit me. "It's the free coffee, isn't it?"

He twitches. "Well, what else? _JESUS! _What's so funny?"

My smile falters. I didn't exactly know why I was laughing. It's certainly not because of the revelation of his dad's real motive for having Tweek work in his coffee shop—that being his dad wanting to, perhaps, kill him from the excessive intake of caffeine. It could be the thought of Tweek falling for it completely, perhaps unaware or ignorant of the said psycho plan.

Maybe it's how easy it is to see through Tweek. Such a predictable, spazzy freak.

I look at him and am surprised to see him waiting for an explanation. I wave my hand dismissively and change the subject. "You know, it's weird seeing you so…" I pause, choosing my next word carefully. Of course, I wouldn't care for careful. "…_normal_, when you're working with art."

He lifts his head up and twitches. "N-No-Normal?"

"I've said it too many times, man, you're a wreck."

"Yeah, well that's from all the _shit_ you put me through."

My eyes could almost pop out of its sockets hearing that outburst coming from Tweek. He seems surprised by his own ebullition and starts to spaz out, swearing and attempting to grow bald in the next five minutes. I reach out and grab his shoulders and try shaking him out of his trance. This would take a while.

**~.::.~**

We stare at the final result, both of us beaming at how great it looks especially with the different alphanumeric symbols at the background accentuating the main focus: the hand showing the birdie.

"At least we managed to finish it," I laugh.

He finally hands it over to the old geezer and we head out the store. More people are now hustling and bustling about along the streets. I pull my sleeve up to check the time. No wonder, it's almost noon.

Tweek peers inside Harbucks and sees the number of customers that filled the entire café. "_Nng! _I'll be yelled at for sure! _ACK!_" He puts on his apron and fiddles with the string at the back. "I'll do it," I offer, spinning him around not as gently as I hoped and tie the strings together.

"N-not too tight!" He screams.

"Chill," I tell him before I pat his back. "There you go."

He turns to face me and whispers a '_thank you_' before asking if I wanted anything. I look through the window and reply, "I'm not so fond of crowded places." He twitches and glances at the same window. "Me neither."

"See, I told you you shouldn't have worked here," I snicker. "Not even for free coffee."

"But dad…"

I cut him off, but I did so without much thinking and consideration. "Should have received a good punch in the face with your boxing move." I touched my left eye. "I can't forget how long _this_ had to heal."

He froze in place, staring at me with a look I couldn't comprehend. He didn't shiver, he didn't twitch; I wasn't even sure if he was breathing.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He slowly lowers his gaze to the ground.

I clear my throat. "Well… okay, see you, Tweek."

He snaps his head back up to look at me with his giant eyes that, if he isn't too careful, may pop out of their sockets before quickly opening the entrance door and disappearing amidst the caffeine-addicted crowd inside the café.

I stand in place, jaw hanging in shock and confusion. What the hell did I just say? Oh wait, mental kick. I called him '_Tweek_'. Still not used to the change, huh?

Maybe I shouldn't have brought up such '_sensitive_' topics. Well, that's me. Craig Tucker. _World's Greatest Asshole since 1999_.

I grunt and start walking away from the jam-packed shop, towards wherever my feet would take me.

I end up at the park, watching kids skating at Stark's pond, couples walking hand-in-hand, old ladies feeding pigeons… the same old scene.

Except there is something I wasn't expecting to see that moment.

"Kenny and Butters?" I say with my scrutiny. This calls their attention and they smile and wave at me. I walk closer at them.

"Fancy meeting you here, Craig Tucker," Kenny greets. "Never imagined you as a park person."

"Of course I'm not a park person," I tell him. "I hate South Park with my guts."

"Did your parents kick you out yet?"

I roll my eyes. "No. I'd kick their asses out first." I look at Butters, idly watching the birds fly up in the air. "Why are you with Butters?"

He smiles, trying to conceal the lasciviousness that came with it. "Just hanging out on a Saturday morning."

"Yeah," Butters suddenly pipes. "Do you want to join us, Craig? The more the merrier!"

"No, I don't want to intrude on your lovely date." I stifle a smirk.

Butters blinks at me with confusion. "Date? What date?"

The smile disappears from Kenny's face in disappointment, then shoots me a look. I just shrug and tell him, "Oh, never mind. Sure, I'll come with. It's not like I've got anything better to do." This earns a glare from the blond.

The three of us start to walk. "So, what are you doing here, Craig?" Butters asks.

"I just came from Harbucks."

Kenny cocks his head to the side. "Harbucks?"

"Yeah." I reply. "I was just with Tweek doing—"

"Whoa," Kenny breathes out. "They _weren't_ lying when they told us you said his name." He snickers. "I'm impressed."

"Wait, who?"

"Clyde and Token."

I sigh with much exasperation. "Assholes."

"So…why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the hell are you using his name?" He gives me a stern look. I raise my eyebrows questioningly. Annoyed, he says, "Dude, you _hate_ him. I don't know who died and replaced the bastard you were to you-who-said-his-name. Sorry if you can't catch on, Butters."

Butters shakes his head. "No, it's okay fellas. It's none of my business."

"Exactly," I say, stopping in my tracks and shoving Kenny to the side. "And neither is it yours, Ken."

He sneers. "Fine, douchebag."

"Whore."

"I thought we were spouting insults."

"No, we're stating the obvious."

"Now, don't start fighting fellas!" Butters intervenes, holding Kenny's arm firmly.

"We won't, Butters," Kenny answers, eyes not tearing away from me. "I don't want to die again because of him."

"It was an accident!" I yell. "Plus, it was Cartman who let go of that hammer!"

"Yeah, 'cause you knocked him down, which I have no problem with, except for the fact that I got sawed through!"

"How many times do I have to say that I didn't mean it and I'm sorry?"

Butters' plead alarms us both because of the firmness in his voice. "Enough!"

Kenny stares at Butters, his look softening into concern. I grunt at the both of them. "Maybe I should leave."

Kenny snaps out of his trance and glowers at me once again. "Yeah, that will be great, thanks."

With a turn of my heel, I stride away, anger slowly subduing inside me as the distance between me and those two fags lengthens. But I know that won't be the end of it. What was I thinking, that the guys would perfectly understand and not care that I start calling the Spaz by his real name? How could I even explain this sudden change that I never would have imagined would come?

I shove all thoughts aside, postponing it for Monday. We'll see what happens then.

My phone rings and I dig it out of my pocket. I stare at the screen, debating whether or not I should take it. I breathe out and click the green phone button.

"Hello?" I say with much uncertainty.

"Hey Craig," Clyde greets.

"What's up?" I ask, kicking a small stone out of the road.

"Stan called. He said to go to his house to talk about our Christmas plans."

Christmas. That word replays in my head as I stare blankly at the smoke coming out of my mouth as I exhale.

"Be there at around One. See ya?" he asks.

"Yeah, sure." I answer, almost to myself.

He hangs up after a few seconds later, and I continue staring at particularly nothing at all but the air surrounding me.

And I murmur once again, "Christmas."

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **World's Greatest Asshole Since 1999 because the episode aired at that year.

Haha. Craig's so dense. We'll see what happens next. Pray that it won't be long before I upload again. D: You guys don't know how busy I am these days…weeks…months. I'm just hoping you guys won't give up on me. Tell me you won't give up on me! DX Thank you for the continuous support, all of you. :) Read and Review, please!


	12. Disputes without a Mediator

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **The concept of Kris Kringle (where I'm from, we call it _Feel Good Friend_) was conceived once upon a time by some fellow who wanted to do something gay with his friends. Unless she was a girl. That would be totally understandable. Oh no, am I being close minded? Forgive me. No wait, just don't mind this anymore. I also do not own _Go Fish_, and whatever the logo of Stan's cap is. Also, Thanksgiving is not a made-up holiday. I don't even have that holiday here. But I did eat Turkey.

**Author's Note: **Okay, I know what you're thinking. After the long-ass wait for an update, all I can give you is this. I honestly cannot offer you much more than this because (Get ready!) I have lost my inspiration. (Imitates '_The Scream_' portrait.) Yes, I have lost it. Hopefully I could regain them soon, but in the meantime, please be satisfied with this.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Disputes without a Mediator**

"What are you doing here?"

Ouch. Since when does it matter if a guest happens to arrive earlier than the proposed time?

Although, in all honesty, I had taken off for Stan's just as soon as Clyde's call ended because I didn't want to drift around bored out of my wits for about another hour. Plus, arriving around noon would mean intruding the homeowners in their delicious lunch, which would eventually lead to being invited to sit and dine with them at the table. To that, I say yes please.

"I wanted to see you as soon as possible," I say in a cool tone.

He rolls his eyes and leans against the door frame, crossing his arms. "I kind of expected Cartman or Kenny to do what you just did right now, because I know for a fact how they'd make up the most outrageous excuses just to get a taste of what I'm having for lunch. But you? Wow, we aren't even _that_ close for you to '_want to see me ASAP_'."

"Kenny's got something better to satisfy his stomach right now." I barf inwardly at my own joke that had implied his imminent Ultimate Bonding Experience with Butters. After all, that _is_ his goal, isn't it?

"Oh god, there goes my craving for turkey with cranberries."

I cock my head to the side, puzzled. "Don't you only have that during Thanksgiving?"

The look Stan shoots me is also of equal confusion. "Yeah, dude. It's today…?" He ends that question as if in doubt, or as if knowing that fact is the simplest thing in the world and I am the only one who is unaware of it. My eyes widen at the sudden realization, despite how his remark could make one perceive me as stupid. I just can't believe I've gone through half the day without being aware of today's specialty. Tweek hadn't mentioned anything earlier, but I suppose it slipped his mind as well. And I can be sure of the shopkeeper's ignorance towards the outside world. Not even Kenny nor Butters mentioned anything about this holiday. Perhaps the teachers may have said something during classes, but I'm not exactly the type who would pay attention to their ramblings.

"Well, at least you can be thankful for me reminding you, Craig," Stan laughs.

I grunt, then reply: "I could be more thankful if you let me in and out of this freezing atmosphere."

He relents and asks me to follow him into their Dining Area. There, I am greeted by his parents, and then snorted at by his older sister. I am offered a piece of turkey, and I've never tasted anything this good and fulfilling.

"Why, he eats just like your fat and your poor friends," I hear his mom whisper.

"Never had turkey in your life, Craig?" his dad queries.

"Only once at Token's years ago," I answer him truthfully. "My mom never bothers to cook anything _this_ great."

Stan's parents look at each other with puzzled faces. Of course, I say to myself, they must have been conned by my good-for-nothing parents countless of times. Hearing me say that last statement just doesn't fit to the lie they've always believed in.

"But she _does_ cook delicious food, doesn't she?" his mom clarifies.

"Sometimes." Understatement. "In fact, last night, what she cooked for us became my favorite meal."

She smiles, relieved. "What was it, then?"

I take a big bite of my turkey. "TV Dinner."

Stan notices his parents' sudden silence and looks at me with eyebrows raised. I shrug.

Half an hour later, at 1:00, the other guys arrive. As soon as we were complete, Stan begins to explain the meeting.

"It's Thanksgiving Day today," he starts.

"So you rounded us up to give thanks to all our blessings like some circle of ninnies?" Cartman asks, skeptic.

Stan rolls his eyes. "No, fatass, I was going to say that there's exactly one month left before Christmas."

"Let me guess," Kyle says, earning everyone's full attention. "Kris Kringle?"

Stan grins. "Yup."

Cartman groans. "God, that's even more a faggotry than being grateful for all your shit."

Stan smacks his arm. "No, it isn't! When was gift-giving ever gay?"

"_Gift-giving_, in itself, is not _gay_. Having secret santas who have to buy you stuff according to a list is _gay_," Cartman elucidates.

"Yeah, it _would_ be weird for guys to be leaving each other things with a bow and a tag signed anonymously," Token agrees.

Clyde laughs. "Yeah, I bet they'll think we've all gone bender."

Stan groans. "You guys aren't letting me finish! It's going to—"

Cartman quickly interjects, shoving Stan to the side. "You know what would be _really_ awesome for a Kris Kringle that involves all you guys?" His evil grin intrigues us to lean in a bit closer. "Instead of doing _nice_ things for each other, why not make each other's lives a living _hell_? That'd be so sweet, you guys."

Stan and Kyle glare at him incredulously, but Token, Clyde, Kenny and even I beam in agreement.

"That _would_ be fun!" Kenny exclaims.

"It really _is_ quite out of the ordinary," Token says as he takes a sidelong glance towards Kenny. "So long as we don't end up killing each other."

"Don't you see what this game measures?" Cartman asks. "It measures our ability to stay friends, even after all the shit we'll be pulling on each other!"

"You're just saying that," Kyle interrupts, "so you could get away with humiliating us because, now, you have a reason to."

"And this isn't a game, fatass!" Stan yells. "This is supposed to be the other way around! We've been assholes to each other 364 days in a year, so why can't we spend the 365th on doing good?"

"Because, douchebag, we're not pansies like you and the Jesus Killer," Cartman gestures towards Kyle, the insult infuriating him. "Plus, you're outnumbered. Raise of hands, everybody! Who wants to go with my super cool idea?"

Kenny and Clyde energetically raise their hands high in the air, eager to formulate their evil schemes. Token shrugs and raises his hand. The rest eye expectantly at me and I roll my eyes. "I don't really care. You already lost, anyway." I tell Stan and Kyle, who humph and glare at Cartman. He sniggers. "So, let's get to name picking, shall we?"

Disgruntled and defeated, Stan brings out the cap with the 7 pieces of papers he had already made this morning. Cartman takes it away from him and points it towards Kenny. The blond digs his hand in the cap and quickly brings out a name, his eyebrows lifting in interest. Kenny, as far as I have observed, rarely causes the misfortunes upon others only because _he's _the one to be the likely target for them. What concerns me, now, is how much vengeance he has been keeping inside and to what extent this act of payback could reach, assuming he has so. No one really knows for sure what '_Forgive and forget_' means to the poor—literally and figuratively—guy. He smirks and shoves the paper down his pocket.

Next in line, Clyde shuffles the papers around and picks one out, eyebrows lifting as high as Kenny. Now he, I can assure you, could play a trick on you even without your full knowing. Sometimes, he would suck, but at other times, he would surprise you by how cunning he could be. If I will be asked, he wouldn't last 2 weeks staying anonymous to whoever he'll victimize. He blows out the air that had been caught inside, whistling as he does so.

Token quickly pulls out a name and reads it, careful not to show any emotion on his face. Now, I am not sure of Token's capabilities, but being rich, he could hire the sliest people who would leave no evidence whatsoever that it was him, or that it was done by professionals. A mastermind with minions. Not all of us could get that privilege, that asshole.

After Token, Cartman shoved the cap against my chest, and I swirl it around a bit before picking a name out. There is a part of me that doesn't want to open it up, afraid of who it might be and how I'm going to scheme troubles to different degrees for him. But noticing the watchful glances the others are giving me, I open the fold and read it.

_Stan_. Well, that would be fairly easy. This could probably serve as revenge for all he had done to him. It may be not _only_ him, but in behalf of their entire group that most people dub as 'Stan_ and those guys'_, I'll be making sure he gets a taste of his own medicine.

I watch Stan and Kyle simultaneously reach into the cap in high hopes that either would get Cartman, but their faces fall in disappointment just as sudden as their grabbing of a name.

Lastly, Cartman takes out the remaining paper in the hat, tossing the headgear away. He opens it up and stares at it with no emotion whatsoever, just like Token. But, and I know if there is anyone as observant as I am being right now, I catch his eyes glisten in eagerness and malevolence. Whoever the disasters caused by the fatass would befall on, I bid him good luck. I can only hope for myself that, if it just so happens that I am the unlucky one, he would understand the language of my balled fists to his face if he messes with me more than acceptable.

I never thought of him as friend, anyway.

Immediately following afterwards is our departure from Stan's home due to his growling demand, leaving Kyle to calm him down, or possibly to complain with him. Cartman heads off swiftly to his home, perhaps, whilst Token bids farewell to come home to a lavish Thanksgiving Dinner with family and relatives. Clyde offers to Kenny and I to go back to his place and play card games which we both, having nothing else to do, agree to.

So now we're sprawled on the floor with our cards at hand, chatting away about the Kris Kringle which honestly doesn't seem like one anymore after succumbing to Cartman's evil scheme. Maybe Stan was right, though, about having to do good for one another for at least a day—a Christmas day—just to make up for all our assholic tendencies. But I don't really care for the bickering of both parties, especially when it's between Stan and those guys. I don't even enlighten myself into taking sides when an argument arises between Clyde and Token because both are just being complete sissies and I always need to act as the mediator-slash-the peacemaker who ironically does not act on peace for the life of me. Cartman won, and Stan has just got to accept that fact because, apparently, we've lost faith in Santa Claus faster than we've reached puberty to dread receiving a mere lump of coal for Christmas.

Now, I'm beginning to realize that planning something evil for Stan Marsh is harder than I thought, mainly because just about _everything _can piss him off which gives me a wide range of ideas to push him to the limit. Having to choose is as troublesome as having to answer a Trigonometry exam that involved the six trigonometric functions.

"I bet you've already got something hidden under your sleeve," Clyde nudges my side.

I really got to stop spacing out to say my internal monologues. "What makes you think that?"

"I'm talking to he-who-can-do-anything-badass over here."

I roll my eyes. "Really? Where is he?" I point to the stack of cards in the middle. "Just go fish."

It's odd, though, to find myself playing _Go Fish_ with Clyde and Kenny in Clyde's place even though he must be annoyed at me for using Tweek's first name. He must think I've gone soft on him. Either that, or that I discovered a new brand of drug that makes you suddenly buddy-buddy with your least favorite person in the world.

I haven't gone buddy-buddy with Tweek, have I? Well, not yet but—wait. Did I say _not yet_?

I shudder at the thought just as Kenny looks at me saying, "Any fives, Craig?" I look down at my spread and hand him my two five cards.

"Hey," Clyde calls our attention, "wanna spill partners?"

I cringe. I glare at the both of them and remind myself that I am with the worst secret-keepers in our group after Cartman. Plus, having no one know who you're targeting makes it all the more exciting and frustrating on the part of the target. Lest Stan knows of everyone's partners until there is only one spared, I should keep my mouth shut.

"I'll pass," I tell them.

"Not man enough to tell us?" Kenny asks me, smirking. "Pussy."

Clyde pulls on a stern face and waves his hand dismissively. "He's always like that, Ken." I eye Clyde suspiciously, listening attentively to what he has to say. He continues, "He never tells his _best friends_ anything."

"Yes, I do!" I say in defiance. "I tell you about—" I pause in midsentence, and I regret not having to quickly think of something that I have always told them.

"About? About what? Face it, Craig, you only talk to us about your dreams from your naps in the middle of class or to complain about most things related to academics _and_ the '_Spaz_', but even the latter's gone now, isn't it?" He throws his spread on the floor. "You always have to keep secret most things in your life, and you know what? It's unfair! Token and I tell you _everything_—"

"No, you don't!" was all I could say.

"Fucking shut up, douchebag!" He interjects. "You don't say _anything_ about your family, or where you've been all weekend, or what _exactly_ was the reason for you acting like some crossbreed of a high Towelie and a zombie last week, or what the _hell_ is fucking going on with you and Spaz!" He slaps my card spread from my hands as he emphasized the last word of his rant.

"Asshole," I seethe as I throw myself at him, punching his face and kicking him. Kenny stares at us, amused at the whole scene of me fighting Clyde.

That's when it hit me—well, Clyde's fist and a realization, so two _its_, really: I am here fighting my best friend. But I am too distracted to even think of the consequences this fistfight would bring.

"I have the right to keep secret whatever I want to keep secret!" I yell, guarding myself from Clyde's incoming punch.

"I have the right to know what's up in your fucked up life, Tucker!" he yells in return, kicking my side.

"Since when did you care?" I grab his shirt and shove him to the side, giving me enough time to wipe the blood from my lip. "All you ever find intriguing about me is my lack of a sex life and my violent propensities!"

"Is that all you ever think of me?" He snatches a magazine from his table and flings it towards me. "What about Token then? Do you think all he ever is interested about you is your lowliness in the Social Class Hierarchy?"

I dodge the magazines being hurled towards me and scream back, "If you just stop throwing your porn magazines for a second, I could—_stop laughing, Kenny—_Clyde, for god's sake, destroy your room for all I care! I'm leaving!"

I dash out the room, hearing Clyde's growls of anger and Kenny's amused laughter echo and fade away. When I run a few blocks away from his house, I pause to catch my breath, acquainting myself with the cold atmosphere once again. I glance back at where I've been and look up to the sky, squinting at the brightness of the clouds that completely invaded the blue blanket. I close my eyes and sigh, feeling a trickle of blood drip from my nose.

I'm such an idiot.

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **I chose Kris Kringle partners for each boy the same way they did—pull out names from a hat. I actually was surprised and happy for what each got, telling myself that it really _is_ destiny. Don't be shocked by whose victim is whose because I _honestly_ picked them out by fate.

And let me take this opportunity to greet you all a Happy Holidays!


	13. From Friends, We Are Enemies

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I do not own anything related to this series.

**Author's Notes: **Summer time! Which means I have more time to upload chapters. ;) Sorry that I haven't been posting South Park stories as I used to, considering that I had discovered a new fandom last November. But that doesn't mean I had given up on this, oh no. So don't you fret. :D I hope I don't disappoint you with this. :(

Also, credits to Buttersthedancingqueen for providing me an idea for this chapter ages ago. :D

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: From Friends, We Are Enemies**

As usual, because Clyde bitched at me, my locker isn't graced by his smug, assholic presence. It isn't much of a surprise to me that he managed to get Token to avoid me too. That inseparable pair. No matter how much they fight and punch each other's noses, they'll still pull themselves together and eat at the same lunch table like their arguments were things that come and pass. Somehow, I get the feeling I'm that sort of friend whom they can throw away at one point, but then fawn over the next. Yup, my insatiable existence. Maybe now I know how Kenny's replacements when he died for a long period of time suffered the abandonment once he came back.

I don't expect any less of them, of course. Back in kindergarten, I remember, Clyde had taken Token's favorite banana pie when he thought Token wasn't looking. So, to get back at him, Token had placed an earthworm down Clyde's shorts which resulted to a scrawny kid fistfight and a fit of wails from Clyde when Token poked his side which amused the latter greatly. The next day, they became fast friends. Where do I come in, you ask? I was the one who had encouraged Clyde, albeit unintentionally, to steal with my mention of how delicious Token's food always were, and I had told Token that Clyde hated earthworms as a sort of trivia I thought wouldn't be quite an issue to share. I did these even though I had no idea about either of them. From then on, they talked to me at random intervals until they decided to hang out with me when—and they were good in making it seem they liked me for _me_ at that time—I started involuntarily climbing up the social ladder.

It's fine with me, anyway, if they hang out with me because of my notoriety. But they have no right to fuck me off after I do something unappealing to them. And what gives them the balls of crawling back to me and '_pardoning_' me like I've committed such a horrible crime? Hey, douchebags, instead of lecturing me with your high holy shit, why don't you tell the world of your parsimony and women invading?

After getting my morning books, I slam my locker door shut, turning on the heels of my Vans and striding forward. This was done in a span of two seconds.

Two seconds is all it takes for some righteous bastard to collide his body to mine.

"Holy sh—" He repels and falls on his ass and I scowl at him. "Watch where you're fucking going, clitface!"

His eyes momentarily meet mine before scrambling to his feet to save his ass. I watch him run, a snicker escaping my curved up mouth that didn't take long to drop when, from the distance, I see three figures pushing a familiar scrawny blond towards the restroom.

I momentarily catch my breath. "It must be Butters."

"_JESUS—GAH!_"

Sweet mother of—

My feet subconsciously start moving forward before I could even pause to rethink my course of action. Not even, at least, how I'm actually on my way to save a Spaz in distress, no matter how fucked up that is and sounds.

I push through the crowd, yelling profanities here and there alongside harsh shoves and pushes. When I reach the door of the restroom, I hear Tweek's deafening screeches followed by the sound of splashing water and laughter. I charge inside and ball my hands to fists at the sight of three shitbags crowding around a toilet bowl. Without pausing to think, I instantly grab the collar of the nearest guy and throw a hard punch on his face. The other two, alarmed, started attacking me, but they have no fucking idea what they've gotten themselves into.

The guy at my left raises his fist to punch me, but I easily beat him to it, smashing his nose before jabbing the other guy at his stomach. The two double over, and I sense the first one coming right at me. I turn around and grab his shirt just in time and hurl him to the wall.

"Holy shit, that guy's insane!" I hear one of them say. I walk towards him and crouch down to grab his arm, twisting it behind his back until he screams in pain.

"_No one_—" I seethe, emphasizing the first two words, "—no one messes with—" I pause, "—_Spaz_ but me. You got that?"

"Dude, let's get the fuck out of here!" He whimpers as I let him go, and I watch in triumph as the three scramble out of my sight.

Breathing heavily, I drop to knees and turn to Tweek who was now cowering beside the toilet bowl, drenched in piss water and mumbling incoherently. I pat his thigh. "Hey," I start shaking him to get his attention. "Hey, get up. They're gone."

His body twitches, and he slowly rises up, wiping the drool, snot or whatever on his face with the back of his jacket sleeve. He stares at me with his big, red, puffy eyes, twitching and sniffling in fixed intervals.

I snort. "You can't seriously be crying over a swirly."

He grabs onto random areas of his hair and groans, resisting the urge to break into sobs. I drop to my ass from my kneeling position and wince. "Jesus, it smells like shit in here." I notice Tweek trembling more. I cast a sideways glance and roll my eyes. "You gotta go home."

"_What_?" He shrieks loud enough to overpower the bell for first period. I quickly stick my index finger in my ear. "Scream again in my ear and I'll stick your head back down that cesspool."

"I can't go home! _GAH!_ I-I-I can't miss English—_ERG! _Exams are c-coming up and—_ACK!—_I'll fail! I don't want to fail! _OH JESUS!_ I DON'T WANT TO BE A FAILU—"

At times like these, if I was the same Craig Tucker as I was about a month or so ago, I would be slamming his head against the sink, saying, "Too late, you're already a failure!" or something much cooler than that.

But, like some sick twist of fate, I end up merely shoving his shoulder, telling him, "Walking around the school with a bruise on your face and a bleeding lip is one thing. Going to class like you got shat on by a genetically mutated man-bear-pig is totally fucked up."

He whimpers as he brings his palms to his face and bends down to his knees. Even from the muffled sound, I manage to make out, "I can't go home—_GAH!—_I don't want to go home!"

I throw my head back in annoyance. I bring my hand up and shake my sleeve down to reveal my watch. With a sigh, I bring it down. "My parents aren't home."

He stops shaking.

I turn my head to him. "Want to go to my place?"

**~.::.~**

I think I dozed off while waiting for him to come out of the shower. It seemed like a painfully long wait on my very comfortable bed that I couldn't exactly help myself. I wake up to the sound of Tweek calling my name and panicking.

I yawn and bury my face against my soft pillow. "What?" I murmur.

"I don't have underpants."

With a groan, I push myself off the bed and walk towards my dresser as I wipe the crud out of my eye. Opening the drawer, I take out the first underwear that I find and throw it at his direction. I hope it wasn't the Red Racer ones.

After failing to catch them, crouching down to retrieve them, having them fall again, then picking them up, he quickly slams the door shut. I sit again on the edge of my bed and wait, drumming my fingers on the mattress and humming the theme song of some obnoxious TV ad.

The doorknob clicks, and the door creaks as he slowly exited the bathroom. I had lent him a deep red shirt that I had grown out of and my green shorts which he seems to be pulling up due to its size compared to his stick figure.

He looks from his shorts to me with a pained expression.

I stand up. "Wait here," I say before heading out the room to where dad sleeps. I pick the lock and barge inside, looking around for his wardrobe. I step over crumpled papers and sheets on the floor, kicking porn magazines out of my way. I accidentally tip his garbage bin over and am about to leave it lying there when I pause and part my lips to scoff at the sight of its contents.

I kneel down and pick up a photo that had fallen out, clicking my tongue as I stare at the faces of four people, three of which feigning happiness for the sake of the portrait. I look thoughtfully at one face who kept his expression blank and, for a moment as I look at his eyes, quite sad.

I shake my head and fold it to put it in my pants pocket. I continue my search for the dresser and, once I find it, grab a random tie and bolt out of the room.

When I head back to Tweek, he had already given up trying to hold his shorts up which now hung below his waistline and turned his attention to the CDs in my room. Damnit, I _had_ given him Red Racer underpants.

I clear my throat to catch his attention, and he turns around, almost dropping my _D-Sides_ album. I pull on the neck tie in opposite directions and show it to him. "Here." I throw the tie to his direction and plop down to my bed as I watch him fumble with it. After countless of failures in putting the end of the tie through a loophole, I put a finger through one and pull him closer to me. He squeaks in surprise and I snatch the tie from his hand. "You can never do anything on your own, can't you?" A month ago, I would have meant it with much malice. Now, it's all just light banter. Unexpectedly.

After knotting the tie, I tug on the sides of the shorts lightly to ensure its security. "Better?" I ask, breaking into a grin.

He fiddles with the tie for a while before lifting his head to look at me, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" I cock my head to the side and I realize what he meant. "Well, that's what they all want, right? For you and I to 'make amends?' Plus, the sooner they'll see how I've proven them wrong, the sooner we can both go back to our normal lives earning back custody of our freewill." I lean back and draw a deep sigh.

He twitches and takes a seat beside me. "Thanks. _ERG!_"

"No problem."

"I'll r-return your underpants ton-night."

I lift my eyebrows. "You can give them back tomorrow. I don't c—"

"NO!" He screamed, grabbing my sleeve causing our heads to bump. I put my hand to the area of the impact and groan. "Fucking hell—what?"

"The-The underpants gn-gnomes! _SWEET JESUS! _They'll steal your underpants if you don't get them tonight! They always, _always_ steal underpants! _GAH!_"

I roll my eyes. I cannot believe the guy still believes in that shit he's been bitching on endlessly since eleven years ago.

"—and they don't even have a step two! WHAT IS THIS INSANITY?! _ARGH!_ And Stan and Kyle and Kenny and Cartman all saw it and _how could they have forgo—_"

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take it out, lying on my bed and letting him continue his rambling. The sender reads '_1 new message: Token_' and I raise my eyebrows in slight surprise.

_You and your highly caffeinated responsibility weren't in class?_ the message says.

_we wud b if i ddnt gve sht abt my etrnl prtnr smelin lyk sht_, I text back.

"—stuff and my therapists all hate me because—_ACK!—_they think I'm more fucked up than the judge who always screams in _So You Think You Can Dance_ on crack and—"

Obnoxious beeping sound.

_What?_

_nothn. y r u txtng me?_

"—and then they made me drink _decaf—GAH!—_how could they have given me DECAF?! It's the—_ERG!—_most revolting—"

_2__nd__ period. Go back to school. People are wondering._

_n dat maix clyde mor pisd. ryt_

"—Happy Fluffy Bunny-Bun Time! _ARGH! _They won't believe me unless they find their underwear gone and they'll be sorry they laughed at Britney Spears when the press took pictures of her—"

_Clyde's just sensitive. He doesn't like it when his friends leave him or something._

_or mayb clydes got his panties tyd up in nots al d tym. cuz of d undrpnts noms_

"—and the cheese! _OH GOD! _Conspiracies, I tell you! Conspiracies that brainwash every hapless soul in this godforsaken town—"

_Because of what?_

_nothn_

"—real and no one believes—"

_Anyway, forget Clyde. Go back to school, man._

"—the time and _OH GOD THE PRESSURE—_"

"Shut up."

"What?!"

"Shut up."

"_NNG! _Okay."

I hit send.

_fine_

**~.::.~**

"Do you remember the plan?" I ask him as we stand in front of the school doors.

"_ACK! _Pressure…" He answers, stretching the hem of his jacket that perfectly hides the shirt I lent him to avoid any more bitching from my so-called good buddy.

I roll my eyes. "Just go in, tell the teacher you had a toilet accident, ran home crying and changed your clothes. Leave out anything with me in it, or I'll really make you smell like you got shat on by a genetically mutated man-bear-pig." I pause, then quickly realize that he's wearing my clothes. "Nevermind. I'll just break your jaw."

He bites his lip and pulls on his hair, nodding incessantly.

"Awesome," I smack his shoulder as lightly as I could. "See you after Recess, Tweekie-boy."

He turns his head towards me with a scandalized expression before darting through the doors as fast as he could. I blink and raise my eyebrows, before shrugging and taking a seat beside the steps.

"Social networking sites are for conformists." I hear a voice say.

"I agree," another voice says. "The world will go on a downward spiral with people liking and commenting and re-everything-ing like a mass of technology-driven zombies."

"And people expressing emotions through symbols?" Another voice pipes in. "Soon, society will become like androids communicating in ways we'll never understand because it's too conformist."

"I hate bugs," another says.

I rise from my seat and go round the corner, only peeking to see who they were. I find the Goth Kids at their usual spot, smoking and complaining how life is so conformist and all that shit that makes them a walking paradox. After constant shifts of Stan to Raven and back to Stan, we've managed to collect more information about this sad group than we've cared to know. For one, the tall goth went by the name of Edgar, the small one by Solace, and the red-streaked one by Rue. Only this piece of knowledge stuck in our brains because, as I said, we don't really care much about the rest.

"You know what else is conformist?" Rue asks, flipping his bangs out of his face. "Love."

The other three murmur their signs of approval.

"It's love that brainwashed Raven into becoming a confused and hapless soul," Henrietta remarks, "having to live his life as a conformist football jock."

"We do poem readings," Edgar says slowly, "and he speaks of heartbreak and sorrow and the lost sense of meaning. It's too conformist."

"Love is the paradigm of conformity," Rue concludes, raising his cup as high as he cared to bring. "But I know exactly what blinds Raven into thinking he's conformist."

I turn away and slide down the wall to my ass, closing my eyes and resting my head on the cold wet surface, still eavesdropping on their conversation.

"I blame the ho he used to be with."

"Being obsessed with her is so conformist."

"You know what's equally as conformist? Hating her for breaking his heart. How conformist can she make Raven be?"

"That's why I prefer to stay neutral."

"I'll get a drag to that."

A pause.

"Now, let us quote Edgar Allan Poe's '_Spirits of the Dead._'"

"Thy soul shall find itself alone—"

"'Mid dark thoughts of the gre…tone—"

"Not one…the…pry—"

"In…hour…cy—"

I didn't hear the rest amidst the loud ringing of the Recess Bell and my thoughts scrambling in my mind, formulating a genius plan for my Kris Kringle.

**~.::.~**

"So," Token starts when he sees me walk towards him. "Where were you when _he_ came?"

"Who?" I ask, almost forgetting about the early morning hoopla. "Oh, you mean Tweek?"

"Yes," he answers simply.

"You said people were talking," I reply. "Don't you think they would talk more if I came in to class with him?"

"Hmm, you're right there."

"No one noticed, right?" I frown, afraid of the possibility of Tweek slipping the details out of his mouth.

"Well," Token starts. "When he came in, the teacher demanded an explanation for his tardiness, and Tweek started stammering his excuse, but we only got to understanding that a toilet was involved before he started screaming about the pressure." He put a finger to his ear for emphasis. "I swear; it was like meeting the muse for '_The Scream_' portrait."

I subconsciously roll my eyes, but felt the sides of my lips twitch upward into a highly amused and relieved smile. I had expected so from Tweek. I wasn't much for lying, either. Only when I'm answering a significant batch of questions from the teachers about my parents. It brings me back to that time at the Lunch Table wherein we lost a bet against Cartman just because I refused to lie and said I haven't gotten laid.

"So, setting aside my freak relations," I say, kicking a stone on the snow-covered pavement of our usual Recess spot, "should I begin to wonder why you're here talking to me?"

"I don't represent Clyde in any way you think," he reasons, which doesn't quite convince me.

"Really?" I raise a dubious eyebrow.

He nods. "Really."

"So you don't care?"

"I guess not."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

I break into a half-grin and place a hand on his shoulder. "You're great, man. I wouldn't normally want to boost your already inflated ego, but this I gotta say. And I mean it."

He shrugs. "I guess I realize that it doesn't really matter to me."

"Yeah," I say. "You only care about things that revolve around you."

"Exactly."

I chuckle, and he smiles as well.

"What the fuck is this?"

We turn around and see Clyde storming towards our direction, giving me a pointed glare. "What are you doing here?"

"Sand in your vagina, Clyde?" I say, quirking an eyebrow.

He ignores me and looks at Token. "What's _he_ doing here?"

Token sighs. "Clyde, I wish you'd stop being such a drama queen."

Clyde's face reddens in embarrassment and anger. "Screw this! You're both turning on me!"

"No one is turning on you, Clyde," Token assures him, rolling his eyes.

"Then why are you with him?" Clyde yells. "I thought you were my friend!"

"If you've forgotten," Token gestures towards me, "Craig's our friend too."

Clyde glares back at me. "He isn't, now that he's being all chummy with the freakzoid." He crosses his arms in a defensive manner. "He doesn't need to hang out with us anymore."

"Why do you care anyway?" I ask. "He's never done anything to _you._"

He grimaces and replies through gritted teeth. "Your confusing behavior pisses me off. About a month ago, you were writhing in pain and wanted to commit suicide because there was no other way when you were told to spend every fucking moment of your school life with that guy. You used to _punch_ me whenever I say his name and now _you're_ saying it like it's your favorite word. You used to bang your head incessantly on your fucking locker whenever a single thought passes in your mind that has something to do with Tweek, and now you're all cool with it?"

I stare at him, undeniably guilty for everything he has mentioned. But, sadly, I remain unnerved. "Apparently, yes." I reply in a blunt manner.

"YOU ARE SUCH A FUCKING ASSHOLE!" He screams, getting ready to punch the crap out of me.

"Clyde!" Token yells, restraining him from any physical harm directed towards me. "This is completely insane!" He pushes Clyde away, taking his stand between the two of us. "Normally, it would be Clyde and I screaming our lungs out and Craig doing the lousy job of peacemaking and, Jesus Christ, you two haven't acted this way towards each other since we all became best friends!"

Clyde and I continue glaring at each other.

Token continues, "Are we just going to let Craig hanging out with Tweek ruin this bond that we share?"

"Oh, who's the drama queen now?" Clyde remarks, glancing towards Token.

"Clyde, I swear to God—"

"Why are you so upset about this anyway?" I ask again. "Are you jealous or something? Tell me why you're acting like such a douche ever since I stopped complaining about Tweek!"

He grumbles and crosses his arms once again. "Craig," he says slowly. "No one fucks someone over for more than half his life and then becomes all buddy-buddy with him in a span of one month. That's inhuman and jackassery at its finest."

"If anything, it's something to be rejoiced, Clyde," I retort. "Isn't this the whole point of Mr. Garrison's fucked up plan? To get me to stop trying to get Tweek piss blood out of his dick? Now that we're coming to terms, those wretched retards have nothing to say against me anymore other than my bad flipping off habit and all other shit that doesn't involve Tweek!"

"You are the stupidest asshole I've ever met," he says in a hushed tone. "And I don't want anything to do with you right now." He turns away sniffing and storms off, taking his dramatic atmosphere with him.

"Clyde!" Token calls out in exasperation.

"Fuck off, Token! Go hang with Craig for all I care!"

The silence between Token and I disturbs us both and we look at each other in uncertainty.

"This is fucked up, man," I finally say.

"Whatever." He waves his hand in the air, closing his eyes. "You guys should just deal with your own shit. This is giving me such a headache."

And with that, I watch my other best friend turn his back and walk away. And for a moment, I feel guilty for dragging Token into this argument between Clyde and I, and for tearing, perhaps, the '_inseparable pair_' apart. I start wondering whether Token's as pissed off at me now as Clyde is, and it's all because of this issue involving me hanging out with Tweek which, in itself, is totally innocent.

And the whole thing just leaves me more confused than ever.

**~.::.~**

The next few subjects go on in a drag, with me staring into space and reflecting on what had happened with Clyde, Token and I. And every time I think about it, I always give a sideways glance towards Tweek, wondering how spending time with him caused such havoc in my friendship with the only two people I can stay sane with. And for a moment, I think about ignoring him in case that would help me recover from this disturbed feeling inside me.

But it was during Lunch Time when the tension grew stronger.

Stan and those guys had their eyes fixed on us with confusion and disbelief as Clyde, Token and I refused to speak with each other let alone look or touch each other, only concentrating on the food on our trays.

"Unbelievable," Cartman finally mutters. "The holy trinity has finally gotten on each other's nerves."

"Can it, fatass," I sneer at him.

"Good classic school drama," Kenny chuckles. "Is this the clichéd love triangle they always have to put in every _telenovela_?"

"What's a _telenovela_?" Kyle asks him.

"Soap opera, my dear Jew-boy," Kenny answers.

"What kind of word is _telenovela?_" Stan remarks with a raised eyebrow.

Kenny shrugs. "My teacher's Latin American." He sighs dreamily. "And, damn, is she one hot MILF."

Stan rolls his eyes, but frowns at the state of me and the other two. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he says, "So, how are you guys coming along with your Kris Kringle?"

This catches the attention of the whole table; Clyde, Token and I included.

"I thought you hated the idea of us hyping up the normal gift-giving to something that opposed it?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Still hating it."

"It's only been three days, though," Token comments.

"Yeah," Kyle nods, "but you could've at least thought of a plan. What are you smiling at fatass?"

"Ah," Cartman grins broader, "nothing that _you_ should worry your little kosher-inflated ass about, Kahl."

"Cartman, I swear to God, if you do something so unforgivable—"

"Relax, Kahl! Your wrinkles are showing!"

"Yeah, well, your _buttcrack_ is showing from that gigantic ass of yours!"

"Ay!"

While the whole Jew-vs-Fatass scene goes on, the rest of us continue our conversation.

"Have you thought of something, Craig?" Stan turns towards me.

I shrug in nonchalance. "Yeah, but it's pretty sloppy. Just thought of it a while ago."

"While you were making out with your spazzy boyfriend in the washroom?" Clyde sneers in a soft voice that only Token can hear and I barely. I look his way and grunt. "Something on your mind, Clyde?"

He ignores me and looks at Stan and Kenny. "Mine's pretty elaborate, otherwise fucking brilliant. How about you guys?"

Kenny shrugs. "I put the pro in procrastinate. I'll just make it up as I go." He smirks at Clyde. "But I'm 100% sure my ingenuity will pawn yours completely, o petty disciple of mine."

Clyde laughs. "Don't I know it? No one can compare to you, Kenny."

"Damn straight!" Kenny bangs his fists on the table for emphasis. He then turns to Token and says, "What about you, Token ol' buddy?"

Token mimics my earlier shrug. "It's a hard one."

I chuckle. "Of course; you've gotta plan out the entire thing perfectly before sending out your workers to do the act, don't you?"

He glares at me, and for a moment, we all wonder if he would shove his food aside and throttle me, but when he asks me in a menacing low voice, "How did you know?" we all knew he was kidding around.

"Elementary, my dear Watson," I quote.

"People like you should stay ignorant, Craig," he says, his seriousness _almost_ faltering, "or you would just find yourself paper-mached to the school wall with a poster that states something utterly embarrassing you would just die."

The table was filled with silence as we all stared at Token.

"Oh, yeah," he says, "I can hire people to do that."

"Remind me to pray I'm not your victim," I mutter, breaking into a grin.

"Don't worry, Craig," he pats my shoulder. "For you, it'd be more special than that lame idea."

"Whoopee," I say in a sarcastic tone.

The screeching of a chair interrupts our banter, and at the corner of my eye I see Clyde walk away in a huff.

I glance at Token and sigh. "He'll get over it." Token can only shrug.

**~.::.~**

A series of raps on my bedroom door came as I was brushing my teeth to the chorus of an ACDC song. I spit the foam out and turn the radio off before attending to the impatient knocker. Unlocking the door and swinging it open, Ruby tells me in an annoyed tone, "There's someone at the door for you."

"A guy looking high on crack?"

"Terribly high."

"Coming," I half-yell, shoving Ruby aside and flipping the bird. I hear her click her tongue, and I can feel the intensity of her raised middle finger boring at the back of my head as she groans, "God, your choice of friends is so weird."

I swing the half-open door wider and see Tweek looking from left to right to left in apprehension. I cock my head to the side. "What are you doing here?"

He shrieks and almost slips on the doorstep hadn't I caught his arm in time. After composing himself—or, at least, trying to—he says, "I to-told you earlier that I would return your—_GAH!_—your underpants before the underpants gnomes—_ERG!—_get them."

I look around and find no other cars waiting than those of my neighbors. "You ran?" I ask.

He shakes his head furiously. "_AUGH! _That's way too dangerous, man! _ACK! _I might bump into people or-or slip on the pavement and get run over or—_JESUS CHRIST!_"

He hands over to me my Red Racer underwear from his sling bag. I thank him and he twitches.

"So how are you getting home?" I look around once again. "And you didn't exactly answer my previous question."

"My dad—_ERG!—_dropped me off here, but he has a meeting and he's late and—_GAH!_" He answers, grabbing a fistful of hair.

"Do you want me to walk you home?"

He yelps and grabs more hair. "No! I mean—_NNG!—_You don't want anyone to see me with you, right? _ARGH!_ I mean, I know you don't want—I mean—" He continues stuttering, inserting his occasional screams in between.

I 'hmm'ed and realize that he's right. I glance at the side and see the Honda Civic parked in front of my house. I stare at it for a while before saying, "Wait here." I walk a few steps backward, calling out Ruby's name. She makes herself visible from the sofa and answers me.

"Is mom home?" I ask her.

"She just came half an hour ago. Why do you care?"

"Gonna use her car. Wonder if we could sneak in her room and spray sleeping gas?"

"I'd rather we use poison. And she's asleep. I heard '_Rainy Days and Mondays_' playing in her room."

'_Rainy Days and Mondays'_ is mom's nap song. The moment it starts playing, she's as lifeless as a log. The chances of waking her up amidst the 20 repetitions was almost zero to none.

I retrieve the car key from the key holder at the back of the door. "I'll be gone for a few minutes. Don't tell mom."

"If she doesn't find out first," she replies, saluting me with the Tucker trademark.

I do the same and close the door behind me. Tweek looks at me with confusion, and I flash a grin and the glistening car keys on my hand.

He stares at me, twitching.

I roll my eyes. "Don't look at me like that! I know how to drive—sort of."

A twitch.

"If I can ride a bike, I can drive a car," I say, walking past him towards the Civic. "I'm good with wheels." At least, that's what my ego would like to believe. When we both get in the car and buckle up, I ignite the engine, scratching my head at the controls.

More or less, we arrived at Tweek's home safely—if you ignored the near misses, the shouts of profanities aimed towards us, the abuse of beeps and Tweek spazzing and screaming during the entire length of the ride almost causing my ears to bleed.

We took a while to calm ourselves down and for Tweek to overcome his tensed state that refused to let go of the car seat he was embedding his nails on. When we go out of the car, Tweek keels towards his front door and bids me a shaky goodbye before slipping himself through the doorway and slamming the door shut.

Inside, I can hear him screaming at the top of his lungs, swearing to God Almighty that he'd use his legs and run instead of risking his life inside a dangerous vehicle that does nothing but increase danger rate and pollute the air, leading all humankind to its destruction.

I blink a few times before shrugging.

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **Read and review please. :D


	14. A Dream Within a Dream

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I do not own anything related to this series, nor do I own any well-known person, place, thing or animal mentioned in this story. This is based purely on fiction; however, should Matt and Trey make Craig and Tweek an official canon couple, I would piss my pants uncontrollably.

**Author's Notes: **Some of you might think I am a guy, and others are certain I am a girl. Well, to those who want to know the truth and nothing but the truth, I am here to clear your minds of this confusion.

I am…

…a tree. There, I hope that solves all your problems.

**-.-**

**On Another Note: **Question: When will they become a couple in this story? Answer: All in good time my friends. Rebuttal: STFU betch. Reply: D:

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: A Dream Within a Dream**

I dreamt I was at the park, running around chasing Clyde and Token. We were much younger—when hair wasn't close to sticking out of my blue cap; when I was faster and lighter; when Clyde was fatter and was tagged easily; when Token still had a sense of fun.

I dreamt we were laughing, having not a flying fuck about the world or how Stan and those guys have managed to get themselves in another shitty situation and getting Butters to take the blame for them.

I dreamt I pushed Clyde to the snow, and he cried, wailing for his mommy. Token and I just laughed and fell on the snow, feeling the cold and wetness on our faces and drenching our clothes much further.

I dreamt I stayed like that for as long as I could remember, ignoring the ideas of frostbite and fever because all that mattered was the three of us and how much fun we were having.

Then, I heard someone call my name, and I stood to see who it was. I saw my mom smiling at me, holding my sister's hand. She called my name again, and I ran towards her, hugging her legs and sending shivers down her spine because I was cold and wet. She told me we had to go home so we wouldn't catch a cold.

I dreamt my father was waiting by the car, face lighting up when he saw us approaching. He kissed my mom tenderly before getting in and starting the car. I sat up front while mom assisted Ruby on her safety seat at the back. We drove our way home, and I told dad how my day at the park had gone, boasting about how fast I was when tagging Clyde and Token. I even tagged them both at the same time, I had said.

I dreamt my father looked at me and smiled a weary smile that said no matter what shit happens at work, it'll always be family that would help make it all bearable. And he told me how proud he was of me, and mom echoed how much she loved me.

I dreamt I smiled at the both of them and fell fast asleep on the car seat.

I awoke feeling as though I was a dream within that dream and found myself on my bed, still gripping on the picture I had found crumpled in dad's trashcan. I shift and look at it, breathing out air I had subconsciously held. _Three fake smiles and one dark look._

And as I send it flying across the room, I close my eyes and tell myself that this family picture emanating great unhappiness, and my current state of being with my relationships, is more than enough proof that my dream—that sweet dream that only pops up in the rarest and the most inappropriate of times—is nothing but one big ass lie.

**~.::.~**

Token and I stare at Clyde down the hall watching him flirt with a girl who would possibly end up in his pants later that evening. I bang my head against my locker and wince at the pain that shot through my head because I haven't done that for so long.

"Whatever happened to bros before hoes?" I find myself muttering.

Token sighs. "Null," he looks at me, "after he _lost_ his bros."

I rub the back of my head. I fix my gaze on Token who stares at his newly polished shoes. With much sincerity in my voice I say, "Sorry."

He doesn't look up when he asks me what the apology is for. Answering simply, I reply, "For getting you in this shit."

He shakes his head, smiling a bit. "I did it to myself. Plus, I'm always involved when you two are involved. We're the '_Three Amigos_,' remember?"

There's a discomfort at the pit of my stomach just by seeing how lonely Token feels without Clyde glued to his side bothering him for answers or notes or to borrow money for something useless if not food. I know because I had felt it numerous times with the both of them avoiding me. Token only has Clyde steering clear of him, but that, to Token, is like having the whole school ignoring your existence.

Should it be best for Token to make amends with Clyde but, at the same time, match Clyde's anger towards me and ignore me like he had been dragged to do before? Personally, I would detest the idea, but for Token's sake, I wouldn't want him to be separated from his Super Best Friend.

I sigh and voice out my opinion to Token who seems rather perplexed at the thought of it. "Craig, that's a load of shit," he tells me, but his eyes depict an emotion indecisive of whether to agree or disagree with what he had just said.

I shrug and watch Clyde walk away, arm draped over the girl's shoulders. "That guy will be fucking his way to depression."

Token raises his eyebrow at me.

"Just think how many '_BAB_' stories he'd have to keep bottled up inside him," I continue. "Without anyone to share them with, he'd explode in a matter of minutes. And all those homework he'd boycott," I glance at Token. "And without your notes, he'd flunk every quiz straight out. If worse comes to worse," I let myself drift off, wanting to catch even a quick, almost unnoticeable flinch from him, "he won't be able to take the exams. And, dude, I don't even think the fatass would want that to happen to himself."

Token clicks his tongue. "Are you that desperate for all your friends to fuck you over?"

"No," I roll my eyes, "I just don't like them looking like torn lovers."

He punches my arm hard enough for me to lose a bit of balance. I laugh and he looks as though he'd be doing it again. I raise my hands in defense. "Getting serious now," I say, "I think you should be the scale that balances both sides. Clyde's pissed off at me and only me—not you. He may be annoyed with you defending me, but if you go and talk to him to cool his head, then this whole drama will be all over and we'd go back to being best buddies by Christmas."

He stares at me like I had gone mad, but nods his head thoughtfully. "I can't believe I haven't thought of that, Craig. Who died and deposited his wisdom onto you?"

It's my turn to smack his arm but he turns his body in such a way that my smack seems only like a pat on the shoulder.

"I'm also serious about the failing in quizzes and one-night-stands, you know," I tell him.

He shrugs. "Yeah, can't afford that, can we?"

I shake my head. "Bros can't let other bros drown."

The bell rings and Token places his hand on my shoulder. "I'll get back to you once I've talked to Clyde."

I bid him goodbye and watch as he, along with the rest of the student body, hustle and bustle their way to their classes. I take a sideways glance and smile before approaching the only person who stuck out like a sore and incurable thumb in this cesspool of stereotypes. I lean on the locker beside his and grin as he jumps in surprise by my sudden appearance.

I chuckle, "What's up, Tweekers?"

**~.::.~**

Half of the day passes and it's Art class. I look around me and see people showing off their canvasses to their partners and to the others in exchange for sneaking a peak at theirs. I lean towards Tweek's table and call his attention.

"Hey."

He squeaks and almost drops his thermos. He shoots me a quizzical stare and I say, "Where's your project?"

He blinks in an amazing speed and he twitches. "_GAH!_ N-no, it's too embarrassing!"

I quirk an eyebrow. "I think I deserve to see my face painted on a canvass, don't you think so?"

Shaking, he brings out the canvass from his bag and shyly shows it to me. And for a moment, I feel as if I had been shot at the chest and resurrected from the dead when I lay my eyes upon the artwork this spazzy partner of mine had created. I look at him with my mouth hanging open, but couldn't find the words to describe the ingenuity of it without sounding like a complete fag.

"It's…" I start.

He throws his hands to his hair. "_ARGH! _I knew it! It's horrible, isn't it?"

"What?" I retort. "Are you crazy? It kicks ass!"

We both stare at the painting for a period of time.

"A-are you saying that because it's y-your face?" He stammers.

A pause.

I snort and bite back a loud snicker. After composing myself, I tell him, "Very funny, Tweekers."

He chuckles softly and nervously as he scratches his head. "_Erg! _So, where's yours?"

I get discouraged for a while before finally retrieving it from my bag. I show it to him and brace myself for a long string of scrutiny and a tremendous amount of laughter. He stares at it thoughtfully and I groan in exasperation. "I know, it sucks. Art is gay, okay?"

He stares at it for another while longer before glancing up at me and saying, "No, it's good, Craig."

I furrow my eyebrows and lean my cheek on the palm of my propped hand. "You're just saying that so I wouldn't smack you in the head."

"_ARGH!_" He screams, pulling on his button-down shirt. "N-no! _ACK! _It's really good! Honestly!"

My expression doesn't falter, and he knows I don't believe him. He gulps and, mustering up the courage, he tells me, "Trust me. You're as good as Picasso."

It catches me off guard, and I feel this strange emotion welling up inside me. Having no words left to say, I smile at him, and he smiles back weakly.

…

…wait a minute.

"_Fucking douchebag_!" I scream, smacking Tweek's head. He screams out in pain and clutches his head, chanting "I'm sorry" over and over again. People have gathered around us in curiosity and anticipation for another bloody match, and I flip them all the bird.

But in spite of it all, my lips curve upward and I let out a genuine laugh.

And I begin to wonder if, perhaps, this really is a dream within a dream.

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **If you don't get the joke at the end, please search for Pablo Picasso's artworks, then you'll be able to get why Craig was upset. This was pretty short, so I apologize for that.


	15. Craig Tucker

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **I do not own anything related to this series, nor do I own any well-known person, place, thing or animal mentioned in this story.

**Author's Notes: **I AM ALIVE. YOU MAY NOW START DOING THE CONGA IN YOUR UNDERWEAR. BUT BEWARE THE UNDERPANTS GNOMES. THEY ARE EVIL CONNIVING CREATURES.

And to unsaisonenenfer , THIS IS A LATE REPLY, BUT I HAPPEN TO LIKE DESSERTS. YES, LET'S GET MARRIED.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: Craig Tucker**

As days pass, I've begun to realize things I should have sooner.

First, I realized that the exams are coming up in just a few more weeks which means I better be bumping up my a-little-bit-less-than-mediocre grades. In all honesty, and people are quite amazed to hear this, I like making an effort to get grades as high as Kyle's or Token's. It's to compensate for my low deportment due to my "boisterous and rude behavior." It's also to shove it up my parents' asses and say, "Hey, I _do_ make something out of my life. I don't just sit there and do nothing like a useless piece of china we never use in the cupboard."

Second, after that first realization, I realized that the week after the exams is Christmas which means I have to start my Twisted Kris Kringle for Stan. And this is what I've come up with:

Stan, at times, is quite non-responsive to most things, and he doesn't like making a big deal out of anything. The only times he does is when it involves his ex-girlfriend-now-turned-mother-whore-of-the-century. The matter of fact is, he's still in love with her. Now, if I could get her to scheme against Stan with me, then this would be fucking sweet.

"What's in it for me?"

And, of course, the bitch barks.

"What do you want?" I answer.

She puckers her lips and twirls strands of her black hair around her finger. "Hm," she starts, "what can you, The Craig Tucker, give me?"

"_The _Craig Tucker?" I mumble in annoyance.

"What do you think you should give me?" She asks.

"Jesus, like I'd know," I say back, "that's why I'm asking."

"Chill, asshole," she says.

I roll my eyes and lean my head against the cold cemented wall of the school.

"If I ask you to buy me something," she pauses and laughs. "As if you can afford it."

"Hey," I retort, "I'm not like Kenny who eats PopTarts for breakfast and fried rats for dinner."

"Eww!" She shrieks, scrunching up her nose. "That's disgusting!"

I shrug. "He says it's best with barbeque sauce."

"Okay, going back to Stan and I…" She rolls her eyes and flips her hair over her shoulder.

I sigh. "Your call."

She looks thoughtfully at Craig. "You know, I haven't slept with you, yet."

"Nice chatting with you, Wendy," I say before turning around.

"Hey!" She places a hand on my shoulder. "I was kidding. And I want to be a part of this deal."

I raise my eyebrow at her. "You do? Funny, I thought you'd try and castrate me because I'm using your sex appeal to get to Stan's dick just for a stupid prank."

"Honey, I'm used to it." She crosses her arms under her chest. "But these breasts don't work for free, you know."

"So," I tell her, "make a decision."

She puts her finger over her bottom lip and thinks. She suddenly grins and pulls me closer to whisper in my ear.

Now, all I could think about is why I had to ask help from this bitch.

**~.::.~**

I'm at the store buying Vagisil for a chick.

I'm at the fucking store buying Vagisil for a hundred chicks.

I, Craig Tucker, am buying fucking _Vagisil_ for that bitch and her whores. I am a man buying one of each kind of vaginal crap in this stupid store that, thank God, is as deserted as the Church every day except Sundays at 11 through 12 noon. And if anyone looks this way, I'll flip them the finger; if anyone calls me a fag, I'm punching them in the face.

I place the shopping basket on top of the cashier table and the man looks at me weirdly. I seethe, "don't even say anything."

"These are for women, sir," he says, unnerved by my threat.

"Wow, I didn't catch that the moment I saw the word '_vagina_' on the label."

"For your girlfriend?" He asks, scanning the items.

I laugh at the thought of Wendy and I together. There's no way possible that would ever happen. If anything, it's Kenny she looks great with. They're made for each other, I know. King and Queen whores of the generation. I'm still waiting for a day when they'd just attend classes bare naked. Anyway, that's how they usually find themselves. Not minding, of course, role play and other kinks imaginable and not. How should I know? I haven't fucked anyone, and I'm not that willing to in the near future. "I don't have a girlfriend."

He pauses and stares at me.

"And I'm not sexually confused."

He shrugs and says, "That'll be 15 dollars and 38 cents."

I slam the money on the desk and hurry out of the store with the plastic of vagina care products feeling like I've just swam in a pit of toxic waste. Right now, that seems like a better place to be in.

I take out my cellphone and dial Wendy's number, hiding the plastic bag behind me in case anyone I know sees me.

"Hello?"

"All right, bitch, I got whatever you asked for," I say angrily to the receiver.

There's a chorus of giggles in the background. "Then bring it to me."

I look around. "Where?"

She giggles along with them. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm not that easy." She hangs up.

And, now, I want to fucking smash a car.

I sit on the pavement and throw a rock at the nearby lamppost. I browse my contacts and spot Kenny's number. I dial his number and ask the moment he picks up, "Have you seen Wendy any time today?"

"C-Craig? Is this, uh, you?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Butters?"

"Yup, it's me!"

"What are you doing with Kenny's cellphone?" I pause. "Why does Kenny even have a cellphone?"

"He left it in my house when he came over yesterday. I can't bring it to school 'cause it's against the rules."

I blink. "Butters, everyone brings their phone to school."

"Well, uh, I don't."

I sigh in exasperation. "Of course, Butters, you don't. Well, have you seen Wendy? Or any of her bitches?"

There's a long pause on Butter's side. "Well, there's loud music coming from Bebe's house."

"You live near Bebe's?"

"Yup!"

I stare at the wet snow staining my sneakers. I smile. "Hey, Butters, I've got a proposition for you."

**~.::.~**

The format for a news article is the inverted pyramid.

If a line intersects a plane that does not contain the line, then their intersection is a point.

Prophase, Metaphase, Anaphase, Telophase.

_A Rose for Emily_ is by William Faulkner that's about an old chick who fucks dead bodies.

Disturbing me from advanced studying is a loud rapping of the door. I look up from my jumbled notes and yell, "What?"

"There's someone at the door," Ruby answers.

I glance at the time on my cellphone and ask, "Blonde and spazzing?"

"Blonde and gay."

It takes time for me to process what she just said, and I realize staring at the door wouldn't enlighten me at all. I close my notebook and pull on my jacket before heading out my room.

Ruby's leaning against the rails of the staircase staring at the front door. I stand beside her and see a kid trying to pull out colorful clips from his—her?—hair. I descend from the steps and slowly walk towards him. Her. Whatever. Who is this?

"Oh, Jesus, my parents are going to kill me for sure!"

I stop. "Butters?"

He spins around and I almost double over in laughter. Ruby's trying to hold hers in as well and runs towards her room.

"Wh-what the hell happened to you?" I cough, wiping a tear in my eye.

"I gave the plastic to the girls and-and the next thing I knew, they were giving me a make-over!" He cries, trying to conceal his exposed stomach with the lavender tank top he has on.

"So," I say crossing my arms, "why'd you come here?"

"I can't go home like this! My dad's gonna blow a fuse!"

"That's not my problem, Butters." This takes me back to that day when I lent Tweek some spare clothes when he nearly flushed his head down the toilet. Of course, Butters isn't under my care in any possible way, so I don't see any reason why I should help him. If anything, he should've run to Kenny. After all, that poor sex-crazed douchebag would do anything to get into Butters' pants. These fags should just get it on already.

He rubs his knuckles together. "B-But you… but—"

I stare at him fixatedly.

He gulps. "Aw, shucks, o-okay then. Sorry for the trouble, Craig."

I smile and salute him with my middle finger. "See ya later, Butter-ella."

**~.::.~**

Another realization of mine is how strange it's becoming that Tweek and I are getting closer. And what's even stranger is how wandering eyes would fall on us and whispers of "I thought they hated each other?" or "I bet they're fucking." or "What an asshole." fills the air. But it's like learning a new lesson in class. At first, you'd question things, though subconsciously at times, listen as you are being mentored, and when the hour's up, you lose all care in the world.

They get over seeing us together and start worrying about their own lives.

If only _they_ did the same.

I look over to Tweek as he scratches the scarf around his neck. "So, where do you usually stay at Recess?"

He looks at me and twitches. "The-the gym. I study there. _Erg! _It helps me think 'cause of the calming environment."

"You study at your free time?" I cringe. "Nerd."

He twitches and starts to stutter incomprehensibly.

"I…" He starts. "I don't have time after classes 'cause I always work for my dad, and sometimes I take night shifts 'cause his other employees don't make it so I don't really have time for anything so I study when I can here in school and sometimes I fail a lot and—_GAH!—_what if I don't graduate? I'll be forced to go to school until I'm 30 where everyone around me will stare at me funny because I'd have a beard and all and I wouldn't have time to study then still because I'd be busy with a night job to keep myself alive because by then, my parents would have kicked me out because who would want to keep a grown up son in the house who's still studying because he's such a fucking failure and—"

I had to pull on his scarf and threaten to suffocate him just so he could shut up. After 5 minutes of him shaking uncontrollably trying hard not to say a single word, I realized how I shouldn't have done that.

"You know," I say, "I like to study hard during my free time too."

He blinks at me. I shrug. "It's not that I don't have time. It's that I'm sick and tired of everyone saying how I won't have a future because of all the shit I've done and am doing, and it pisses me off."

I pause and glance his way, and for a moment, my heart jumps to see him staring at me and listening intently. I've never seen anyone listen to me and looking like how he looks right now.

"Everyone judges me quickly," I continue. "As if I'm the worst human being they would ever lay their eyes on, when in fact, there are probably others far worse than me. I know I've done a lot of shit, but they don't see that I am capable of doing good."

I sigh exasperatedly. "All right—I beat people up. I disrespect teachers. I flip the bird every five seconds or so. I curse, I hate church, and I sleep a lot in class. But so do other kids. They'd rather focus on that other than my being in the basketball team, or actually having sort of decent grades, or not getting laid yet."

I ignore Tweak's sudden twitch at the last thing I had said. "It's going to be a stupid excuse, but that's the reason why I study hard. I study because I want to prove them all wrong. It isn't all about punching kids' faces and making the class laugh as I torment some poor douchebag for me. I try and raise my grades to compensate for my behavior. Everyone thinks I'm so badass, but I'm not. At least I try and convince myself I'm not."

My voice raises as I continue: "And you know what sucks the most? How this fucking town would think more highly of Eric fucking Cartman who's done so much fuckery in his 16 years of existence to himself, his so-called friends and to every fucking person in this god forsaken town, and the closest I get to is frequent trips to the Guidance Counselor, and everyone hates on _me._ I'm sick of this place! I'm sick of being Craig Tucker. I'm just sick of it all!"

And now, it's Tweek's turn to shut me up. He zips my jacket up and it closes my mouth. I look at him and he's shaking.

"Y'know, C-Craig?" He stutters, eyebrows furrowed and teeth almost chattering. "You should stop thinking about what others say about you and live your life according to how _you_ want it to be."

I stare at him and pull down the zipper. I laugh. "Says the freak whose life _is_ according to how people want it to be."

"So you've noticed?"

"What?"

He keeps his gaze for a period of time before looking off into the distance. He says, quietly, "That we're the same."

And on that moment, I realized, _hey. _

_He's right_.

~.::.~

Days pass and I think about what Tweek had said. It bothers me, oddly, and I can't help but dwell upon it from hours on end.

The hallways are quiet and I close my eyes to listen to the echoes of my footsteps resonating. I start to whistle some song I heard over the radio this morning and walk inside the men's lavatory. I swing open all the doors and cringe at the sight of 2 or 3 stalls.

I walk back to the hallway and pass by the janitor's closet. I peer inside. Empty sans the supplies. I pass through the cafeteria and greet Chef a good morning.

"Sight-seeing, Craig?" he jokes.

"Nothing to see in this town," I answer bluntly.

"Did you get into trouble again?"

I sigh. "No, Chef. Where's the safest place to be in this school?"

He raises his eyebrows at the question. "What?"

"If I were to hide someplace where it would seem safe and quiet, where would I be?" We both stare at each other—he looking at me confused, and I looking at him waiting patiently for an answer.

"Well, uh, I don't know, Craig," he says rubbing the back of his neck. "I've always been here in the cafeteria. And the court when I'm teaching you kids." He clasps his hands together. "But, if I were to hide someplace where no one would see me, I'd be in the library."

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Thank you, Chef."

"Uh, you're welcome, Craig," he says, still confused.

I leave and proceed to the library. Walking inside, I am immediately deafened by the silence, not because it's the library, but because it's the _library_, that place _no one _goes to except if you're in deep shit and you didn't prepare anything for your report later that day and you're not as thick-faced as Cartman who would say anything and would argue with anyone and everyone who would say his report are all lies.

I walk around and keep my eyes and ears open. I pass by a bookshelf and hear sniffles. I roll my eyes and follow the sound until I find Tweek crouched down to the floor and hugging his knees.

"Tweek—" I whisper.

"_GAH!_" From a distance, someone shushes us.

"Jesus Christ, man," I say, sitting down next to him. "Why the hell did you run off?"

"_ARGH!_" Another shush. "Didn't you see _that?_" He whispers frantically. "The-the blood and his body and—_oh Jesus! Oh God!_"

I squint my eyes. "Dude, it's not like that hasn't happened before."

He begins to twitch uncontrollably. "I know, it's just… _GAH!_"

I shake my head, "Calm down, Tweek. Maybe Kenny's… better off gone. For the meantime. I don't know. He'll be back before you know it."

His whimpering sparks a more heated shush.

I sigh and stand up. "Come on, let's go back."

He gulps and stays in place. I rub the back of my head and extend my hands towards him. He stares at them hesitant. Wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jacket, he takes both hands. I pull him up and we both start walking back to class. I glance towards him and smile inwardly to see him calming down.

"Tweekers."

He looks at me. "Eh?"

I put an arm around him. "Nothing."

**~.::.~**

My teammates think I'm taking drugs.

"Or it could be Chamomile tea," one of the seniors remarks. "You know, _Calm-_omile tea."

Everyone else punched him because it wasn't funny. It didn't even make sense.

They had noticed that I wasn't as aggressive as before, or as pissed whenever I look at them in the eye. They have been laying off me since, though. I think it gives them more pleasure to mess around someone who's notorious for messing other people around.

"Nah, I seriously think he's high," another says. "Remember that time when he couldn't even tie his shoes? That must have been some bong hit. Maybe he's already forgotten how to talk."

I roll my eyes as I tie the laces of my shoes.

"Or you know that kid he's been hanging out with lately?" someone else chimes in.

"The one that looks like a broom with legs?"

I snort.

"Yeah," (and from there he lowers his voice) "I bet you ten KFC chicken buckets he's fag for that guy."

I drop my thermos and the sound resonates the court. The group looks at me and I glance at them. "Sorry. Are we going to play or what?"

They all look at each other, and the MVP laughs and says, "Practice shooting, asswipe. You still fucking suck."

I flip him the bird and get a ball from the basket, trying not to mind them whispering, "And you'd think fags would know how to handle balls," and laughing at the thought of it.

When the door shuts, I stare at the net high above me.

"Me and Tweek," I catch myself saying. I laugh to myself. About 2 months ago I swore I knew how to kill the guy. Chop him up, put him in a basket and prance around a field of flowers celebrating the end of that one thing which I hated with the entirety of my being. The _freak_.

(Throw. Miss.)

The _spaz_.

(Throw. Miss.)

The _loser_.

Another throw, and another miss. I groan and retrieve the ball. Thinking about it won't get me anywhere. _Concentrate, you stupid douchebag_.

"What…" I whisper. Did I just call myself a _douchebag_? I shake my head and stare at the net, hands gripping the ball tight.

Breathe in, breathe out. If only it was as fucking easy as throwing a punch at someone's face.

I narrow my eyes and grit my teeth, glaring at the net. "You think you're the best fucking guy in this redneck town, but you're just one giant tub of lard, and I would be _so_ happy to wring the guts out of your pudgy fucking head!" I throw the ball and it bounces off the rim. I growl in exasperation. So much for pretending the fucking net was Cartman.

I grab the ball and sit on the bench. What difference is it going to make, anyway? What are the chances that I'd be caught with the ball at the last 3 seconds of a game? And if I am, what family is going to say they're proud of me at the end of the day while we dine over roasted chicken? What friends do I have left who'll be screaming my name in the audience and tackling me before the rest of the crowd does? What chick is going to tell me that I was amazing and kiss me in front of the student body?

_You could always do it for the school. _Pshaw, yeah, sure. Let's do it for the school who doesn't even give a flying fuck for the basketball team as much as they do with the football team. Let's do it for the school who would grovel at my feet if I _do_ score, and, if I don't, would probably diss me but wouldn't do so much as to dare spit at my face at how much of a loser I was.

Let's do it for the school? Shit, I'd rather do it for a dog.

I throw the ball angrily to the side. Who knew that Craig Tucker would be the most miserable guy in the whole town? All they know of is Craig Tucker, the bad guy. Craig Tucker, that asshole who would punch a baby's face if it annoyed him. Craig Tucker, that kid who likes saluting people with his middle finger. Craig Tucker, that one everybody hates because he's such an irresponsible, disrespectful, violent dickface.

And I'm not going to lie. They're absolutely right.

But now, at this moment, here's Craig Tucker. Alone in a basketball court. A failure in everything he does. No one to call "home" because they know deep in their hearts he's better off dead. No friends to lean on because they hate him.

Craig Tucker. Just a lonely kid forced to live in this hell of a town until 18, and dying every single waking moment of his life.

This has no meaning. No point.

But a faint whisper at the back of my head sends me ricocheting from my self-pity and my heart to oddly skip a beat. "_There's always Tweek._"

I stare back at the net.

I start to imagine him standing at the side, shaking in anxiety and screaming at the enormity of the pressure. He must have taken dozens of thermoses of black coffee filled to the brim.

Shaking my head at the silliness of it, I smile. "Jesus Christ," I murmur, standing up with a fresh ball on my hands. To think that Tweek is serving as my inspiration and drive to exert more effort into this. What a joke.

Tweek Tweak. That spaz. That freak of nature. That druggie who should just check himself in a mental hospital and do us all a favor.

For Tweek, huh?

I shoot the ball.

I watch as it bounces lightly on the rim, spins around it and falls neatly to the center.

My eyes widen and I fall to my knees, staring as the ball bounces off.

And it brings me to the last realization:

Maybe… I sort of… _am _a douchebag.


	16. How Do You Know?

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **Copy-paste everything I've said from the past few chapters.

**Author's Notes: **Just wanted to give everyone a quick update to compensate my long hiatus which I apologize for deeply. Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. I appreciate you guys taking your time to share your thoughts! I love you all!

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: How Do You Know?**

"He misses you, you know."

I lift my head slightly and look at Token through my black mess of hair. His face didn't show any sign that he was kidding, and I scoff. Clyde doesn't miss me. He misses the way I used to be. He misses the days when everything was according to plan—fixed and accepted by all, especially him. I know Clyde; he's allergic to change. He wheezes and itches and becomes red all over when paradigm shifts. One change of course and he's bound to blow a fuse, especially when it has been all fine and dandy to him.

It's hard to explain why. In a much simpler way of putting things, I could sum it up to "WS2BOCDBNR," or "What Seems to Be Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder but Not Really." A control-freak who's a firm believer of the fucked up idea that when something's all right the way it is, why change it?

To put it in a much, much, _much_ simpler way, the little dickwad's crazy.

"He doesn't miss me," I say, locking the loop of my shoelaces before standing upright.

"Well, he does notice your absence," Token replies.

I click my tongue. "Of course he does. What's your point?"

Token stares at me and sighs. "I don't know, man. Maybe you should just apologize. Like before."

I roll my eyes and shake my head. I start walking, kicking stones out of the way to distract myself from the jumble of thoughts inside my head.

Token walks beside me. "Clyde's too fixated at the idea that he's the victim here, so just be the hero for this moment and, I don't know, bend and break."

"Dude, I'm not going to admit something I am clearly not at fault for."

"How is this not entirely your fault?"

I stop on my tracks and turn around to give him a good glare. "What? Now you're on _his _side? Weren't you the one who said we can't let this whole Tweek fiasco ruin our friendship?"

"I know what I said," he says heatedly, "but that's not what I was referring to. It's just weird that you're becoming closer and closer to that spastic mess in such a short period of time, and looking at how we've been the past few years, all you've done was close your doors. Don't you think that hurts us? Your two '_best buddies_?' Don't you think it's unfair that you know almost everything about us while we know nothing?"

"That's not true," I defend myself. "You know me—I'm not a really sociable person. Honestly, not even to Tweek." White lie number one.

Token sighs in exasperation and rubs his temple.

"And Token," I continue, "if I had the chance to say anything about myself, I would have. Have any of you ever given me the talking stick? Not really. It's only when you ask that you find out, but you rarely do. And I'm always honest when you ask, so," I breathe in, "can we just stop bitching about this, 'cause I'm tired of arguing and all this drama."

I kick a large stone in the way and it hits a nearby bench. I walk towards it and take a seat, taking off my hat to tousle my hair in annoyance.

Token sits down beside and stays silent. After a few minutes he chuckles. "You know, it's even awkward at the lunch table."

I give him a sidelong glance.

"You're not there, Kenny just died, Clyde refuses to talk to anybody, Kyle and Cartman keep fighting and Stan—oh, man, you wouldn't believe this—Stan caught Wendy staring at him, and now he can't take his eyes off her."

My eyes brighten. "Wow, that's something."

"I know. I can't believe after all those years, Stan's still willing to come back to that bitch."

"Like a blind dog," I mumble, staring at the kids skating on the frozen pond.

It's amazing; how, after everything one has been through, he's willing to bounce back. Either that's screams loyal or fucking off his rocker.

"What's up with that, though?" Token raises his eyebrows at me and shrugs. "I don't know. I guess first love never dies."

Scoffing, I ask, "Seriously?" He only shrugs.

My mind wanders off to think about the basketball court yesterday. "How would you know you like someone, Token?"

The question catches him off guard and he eyes me with suspicion. "Suddenly?"

"Just answer the fucking question, Black." Thank God the weather is freezing, or he might have noticed the faint pink smudge on my cheeks for even bringing up the stupid topic.

He scratches the back of his head. "I guess when you feel like a cobra's gonna emerge from your stomach."

"Or when you feel the urge to vomit on her," I snicker.

Token laughs and nods. "Or some other unexplainable feeling inside. And maybe, when you see her, you can't help but smile because she just stands out in the crowd. And you'd do all these crazy things just to get to talk to her or spend even just a few seconds with her. I don't know. Why are you asking again?"

I stare at one kid in a pink sweater trying to learn how to skate while her friend guides her around the ice. "No reason. Just…" The kid falls down and a group of boys laugh at her. "…wondering how it feels."

"Right," Token nods understandingly, "because The Craig Tucker hasn't gotten laid yet and wouldn't even do a double take on a girl with exposed skin and big tits."

"Did you feel that way?" I ask further, coursing back to the topic.

He looks up to the sky and ponders on it. "Sort of." He shrugs. "When I was, I don't know, 7?" He sighs when he sees my unconvinced expression. "If you want serious answers, go ask Stan."

I breathe out. "No, I'm good."

He pats my back and says, "I gotta go home and study. See you around, Craig."

"Nerd!" I call out as he walks away. He ignores me and I watch the skating kids again. The boys are poking fun at the two girls and I click my tongue in annoyance. Grabbing a handful of snow from the ground, I form a ball and aim towards the assholes. _SMACK!_ Right on the head. I quickly make a run for it as a loud screech pierces through the air.

I don't stop running until I reach the main town proper. From the corner of my eye I spot Harbucks and stare at the sign. Something inside me tells me I should just go home and watch TV or study or sleep. But outweighing that thought is the urge to step inside that shop and talk to Tweek, and it's just strange because I'm not supposed to actually consider the consequences of going or not.

Closing my eyes, I bring up my index fingers to my ears and hum a tune. I could go inside. It's only to pass time I could have spent doing nothing productive if I hadn't. And who says the basketball incident yesterday wasn't _just that—_an incident? Or am I too eager to find out if I _do_ happen to have this small infatuation over that "spastic mess" as Token puts it?

I could just go home. Watch reruns, cooking shows and annoying shopping networks. Study because I vowed to bump up my grades while listening to Valiumizing Songs on my radio. (Note: Valiumizing = Valium = the chill pill. You can pick it up from there.) But, of course, during the whole course of it my mind would be wandering off to think about Tweek and I'd be restless in wonder of what might have happened if I had just entered the stupid coffee shop.

I bring my hands to my face and groan. All right, fine, I'm going in.

Entering Harbucks, a euphoric aroma fills all my senses blowing away the feeling of trouble I deny that is stored inside.

"Welcome to Harbucks!" A barista greets, snapping me out of this trance. At the corner of the shop, I spot a familiar figure dressed like a thin celery dipped in cheese wiping off the tabletop.

I approach the counter as the barista says, "Good noon sir, what would you be having?" I look up at the boards and it's all Russian. How the hell can you have so many types of coffee other than black, decaffeinated, and with tons of sugar?

"What's the sweetest thing you've got here?" I ask.

He quirks his eyebrows to think. "Uhm, I'm guessing it's the White Chocolate Mocha."

I blink. "Whatever, get me that."

"What size?"

"Size? Regular?"

He frowns and stares at me like something grew on my face. "Would you like it Tall, Grande or Venti?" He motions towards the displayed cups. Grande and Venti? What kind of names are those for sizes? And why the fucking hell is Tall the shortest one? Jesus Christ, what kind of hobo on crack is running this shit?

"Uh… the Grande, I guess." I say.

"Would you like a cake with that?"

"No, you fucktard," I seethe. Just looking at the display makes me puke. I glance back towards Tweek, and he's mopping the floor near the entrance. I pay for my drink and wait patiently at the side.

After a few minutes, a voice bellows, "White Chocolate Mocha for Craig?"

There's a loud thud from the table at the far end of the vicinity and a screech and a crash of a bucket full of water deafens everyone, but I calmly claim my drink and walk towards Tweek.

He's now a wet mess with bubbles popping here and there from the cleaning residue now spilling everywhere. Taking a sip, I say, "The hell happened to you?"

"_Nng…_"He whimpered, twitching his eyes out.

"Jesus, what a freak," one of the customers say.

"Kids these days," another groans, "makes you want to lock them up and out of our hair."

I flip them all off before grabbing Tweek's arm to pull him up.

"_GAH!_" He breathes as he stands back up. "_Erg! _Messy! I ha-have to clean this!"

"Nah, come on, let them do it," I say dismissively as I pulled him towards the door.

"_What? _No, I can't leave! My dad—"

"Dude, seriously, stop pissing yourself about your dad," I tell him. I had to stop myself from reminding him that his father doesn't even give a batshit about him, so why should he? I sigh and let him go before heading over to the counter. "Hey, freak accident. I suggest you clean it up before customers slip and break their necks."

The guy laughs. "That's the kid's job, over there—"

I grab his neck and bring his face close to mine. "Then find some other dickwad to clean it up before I break your own neck."

He scratches my wrist, pleading. "_Hck—ack—_"

"I'll take that as a yes." I release him and he gags as I run over to Tweek. "Let's go." I ignore his screams of rejection and tug on his arm as we exit the café out to the street.

"Wh-where are you taking me? D-don't kill me, please!"

"I'm not going to kill you, stupid," I yell back, "now run or else _they'll_ kill you."

"_Sweet baby Jesus!_"

We end up in the park and far from the main streets. Half of my drink spilled along the way, but I doubt they'd chase us this far _if_ they did follow suit.

Tweek's doubled over shaking and panicking. "Wh-why are we here? _GAH!_ Why the hell did you drag me out there? _ACK! Nng! _Did we have homework together? _Holy shit!_ _Did_ we have homework? _Oh god, the pressure!_"

I smack his head lightly. "Relax, I was just bored."

I walk towards the swings and wipe the snow off the seat. "That café left me mindfucked. I mean—what's the deal with the sizes? Is making 'Tall' the shortest size some sort of symbol you guys are trying to portray to this mass of people out to get a caffeine fix?"

He nears me hesitantly, wringing his apron in anxiety. "Th-there's a 'Short' size, they just don't mention it."

"The fuck's up with that?" I shake my head. Must be some sort of conspiracy. Wow, I just sounded like Tweek back there. I groan and gulp down my coffee. Looking back to Tweek still standing and tense, I motion him to sit on the other swing.

"Want to finish this off?" I ask as he sits down, extending my arm to pass him my drink.

He twitches. "_Argh! _I-I don't really like sweet things…"

"You like coffee," I persist. He yelps but takes it anyway.

Hands gripping on the chain links, I push the ground and start swinging back and forth steadily. "I haven't been on this swing since I was 6."

This makes Tweek choke on his coffee. "Y-you mean it's _that_ old?"

I roll my eyes. "Clear that sand out of your vagina, Tweek, it's not _that _old."

He begins his freak out, but the rushing wind mutes out the noise. This is actually the closest feeling to riding a bike, only more "free."

"—and, _ACK! _You're gonna fall!"

Out of spite, I push myself off the ground harder, and the creaks of the rusting steel grow louder. Tweek's freaking out more, now, and it actually makes me laugh. The wind feels like it's slapping my face hard, though, and it takes a few more swings to get used to.

Until it blows my hat off.

"Son of a—" I only manage to say before I slip and fall forward to the ground.

Tweek's screeches are deafening me and I yell, "Shut up and get my hat."

He does so and he runs back to me, clutching onto the hat like his life depended on it and kneels next to me. "I-I told you!"

"I might punch you right now," I sneer. I sit upright and massage my right arm's elbow where the impact had been.

Tweek's hiding his face behind my hat in nervousness as I take off the hoodie I had on. "Shit," I mumble as the sight of blood drips from the wound.

"_GAH! _I knew it—_holy shit_—I knew something bad was gonna happen and now you're gonna bleed to death and-and-and—_OH sweet Jesus!—_I should have stopped you! _Argh!_ Why am I so useless—"

"Chill," I only reply. I've had cuts like these, there's no need to fuss over it. "We have to go clean this. Let's go." I hand him my sweater and he twitches. "Y-you're gonna freeze to death!"

"It's not like I'm naked, Tweek." I stand up and nudge him with my foot. "Get your ass up."

We walk back to my house and head towards the kitchen to clean the blood from my arm in the sink.

"Where's the first aid kit?" Tweek asks as he scans the room.

"Check the drawers."

I hear him opening each one as carefully as possible in search for the kit and—damn, this just keeps on bleeding.

Turning the tap off, I sit on the chair and watch as Tweek brings a small red pouch to the table. I eye him carefully as he takes out antiseptics, cotton rolls and bandages.

"Wow, you're not freaking out for the first time since we've met today," I point out.

He twitches and shoots me a look before dabbing the wound with an antiseptic. We both stay silent as he placed the bandage around my arm.

There should be something wrong with this picture, aside from the fact that Tweek's being unusually calm save for a few twitches here and there. I'm trying to get my head around it. Of course, it should be a given that the both of us in this current position is already weird, but it should be long past that. Looking at him, I soon realize that I never really told him to treat my wound in the first place.

"Awesome," I say, breaking the silence, "my first non-battle scar in ages."

He starts pulling on fistfuls of his hair. "_Ugh! _Wh-what's so awesome about getting _killed?_"

"If I died, why am I here talking to you?"

"_AHH!_ I'm hallucinating!" He bangs his head on the table. "I knew it! It's the coffee! It was too sweet! _GAH!_"

"It wasn't _that_ sweet," I murmur, opening the fridge and getting 2 Coke drinks. "Here," I place the can in front of him.

I sit back down and touch my hair. I pause and feel my heart stop. "Where's my hat?"

Tweek looks up. "Oh! Uhh," he takes it out of his apron front pocket and places it on the table. I breathe out a sigh of relief and hold on tightly to the hat.

He twitches and opens his mouth, but quickly closes it. He does so for a few more seconds until you could associate him to a fish like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "What?" I urge him to speak up.

He bites his lip. "D-don't you think that's a little too small for you? _Erg! _Why is it s-so important?"

I furrow my eyebrows, and he immediately thinks he said something wrong. He gulps down his Coke and crushes one side of the can by accident. I shake my head and say, "It just holds a lot of memories, and I'm, uh, not exactly the type to move on so quickly. Even after several years." I glance at him. "You know."

He merely twitches.

"Basically, this is all I have left of him." I stare at the hat and rub the cloth for comfort. Inwardly, I laugh at myself and even flip myself off. I've never really told anyone the deal with my hat. They all figured I just loved it. And here I am, talking to Tweek about it. Honestly, this really is starting to freak me out.

"Was it Stripe?"

My eyes shoot up in surprise. No one—_no one—_remembered Stripe, and I never mentioned him to anyone save for a few times since he left, and I stopped when I realized no one really cared.

"You…" I press my lips together in disbelief. "You remember."

He twitches. "You-you shove him up your ass. Before you s-sleep."

I stare at him and mumble, "I really,_ really_ should have torn that fucking fatass' balls with my bare hands."

"Th-they say the fatter the person, the smaller the dick," he replies. "How can you tear off something that isn't there?"

This makes me spit out my Coke and have a coughing fit. Tweek's shaking violently and covering his head in fear. I wipe the spit at the corner of my mouth and say, "Jesus, that's _weak_ man!" I raise my hand towards him and he winces.

"Dude, high five."

He screams and slaps my hand weakly like some scene from Tarzan, only it isn't meant to be romantic. Except I feel as though it is, kind of, and there's static from when we touched resulting my hand to twitch back.

I draw it back and grip on my hat, pretending as though the yellow puffball on it is the most interesting thing in the whole fucking world.

I also decide not to mention how he's the only person I've ever told about why it's so damn special.

We go back to Harbucks eventually, and I thank him for the first aid. Before he heads back inside, I grab his arm and ask, "You have a mobile?"

He says yes and shakily recites his number as I punch them in my phone. After that, we say goodbye and part ways.

Somehow it leaves me with this melancholic feeling as I walk away from the shop, and this unexplainable stomach ache I'm starting to get. I touch my right elbow and unconsciously press unto it making me wince. But the only thing racing in my mind is that the spark of pain I felt was worth it.

**~.::.~**

Hunched over my desk and leaning on my folded arms, I unconsciously stare at Tweek. When he glances at me, I close my eyes and pretend to sleep, and I'm sure he's getting more and more paranoid. It's only when Bradley whispers my name that I look away. He's tapping a folded piece of paper against the side of his chair and I get it.

"_Notice something?_" I quirk my eyebrows at the question written in longhand and in violet ink. I look around and do a double take at Wendy at the far corner tapping a violet pen against her ear. She looks different; she isn't wearing her usual whore-uniform and, instead, is in decent clothes. She glances at me for a split second before turning her attention back to the prof.

I glance towards Stan at the back and see him staring directly at Wendy. His lips are parted slightly and his eyes have that strange sparkle I have never seen him have ever since they broke up.

He loves her that much?

_Stupid_. I put my head back down and refuse to look at Tweek for the rest of the hour.

Recess bells rings and I search for Stan among the crowd of people. I spot him turning the knob of his lock and I run towards him.

"Hey, Stan," I say almost breathlessly.

He looks quite surprised. "Craig? I haven't seen you in a while."

"Yeah," I look around. "Look, I need to ask you something."

"Shoot."

"How do you know if you like someone?"

"Like," he narrows his eyes, "_like_ like?"

I shrug. "Yeah, whatever."

He opens his locker door and stares at his books thoughtfully. "I guess you'd know when you _don't_ know why."

I raise my eyebrow. "What kind of bullshit is that?"

He sneers. "It's not bullshit, Craig, do you want to know how or not?"

I roll my eyes and say nothing more.

"'Cause if you like her 'cause of how she looks, you don't like her, you just want to get laid," he gestures to a guy at the side fox whistling to a girl who passes them by. "If you like her because she's smart, either you admire her, or you're looking for some chick to help you pass your exam, after which you can leave her for shit."

He gets his books, but continues, "If it's because everyone picks on her and you feel sorry for her, then that's just _that_. But," he smiles, "when you love someone, you don't know why you like her, you just _do._ Everything she does is just amazing."

I stare at him deadpan and flick his forehead. He yelps in pain and drops his books. "Pussy, don't get ahead of yourself," I tell him. "I said _like_ someone, not _love_ someone."

He groaned. "Asshole. You have a crush on someone when, I don't know, she distracts you from doing a lot of things and you keep making excuses just to be with her and you feel this flock of bunnies hopping inside you—"

"Bunnies?" I laugh. "Really, Stan?"

"Fuck you, man, what have you been feeling about your potential crush anyway?"

Stop calling it a crush, you pussy fag. _You're a pussy fag_. What?

"I don't know," I mumble, "I get weird feelings when I see… her and when I don't." This is getting quite awkward, talking about this with a bro. But seeing that it's Stan, I guess he'd understand better than either Token or Clyde. I don't even know why I should be dwelling upon this too hard. What if the reason boils down to how I haven't been hanging out with any of my friends lately? Then, suddenly someone comes along and I realize our parallelisms and the feeling just overwhelmed me, and I had looked into it the wrong way?

Stan nods. "Definitely bunnies."

"At least I don't vomit whenever she tries to talk to me," I tease.

"I was a kid!" He defends. I laugh. He shakes his head and starts to pick up his books from the floor. "Are we seeing you in lunch today?"

I wince.

He cocks his head to the side. "It's because of Clyde, right?"

When I don't say anything, he says, "You know, he keeps whining about how you're 'too busy having gooey sex with spazmoid' or something along those lines."

I grunt, then let out a smirk. "Tell him I'm very flattered that he misses me so much, and that I know just how bad he wants to have gooey sex with me, but only when he calms down his raging tits will I talk to him, got it?"

He laughs and says he got it. With a wave of goodbye, he runs off.

Getting that off my chest was rather helpful and lightened my mood. Clyde's a jackass crybaby, and he is in desperate need to get that vagina checked. I bet rocks were shoved up real deep.

After claiming my books from my locker, I head to class.

**~.::.~**

Lunch bell rings and I decide to eat wherever Tweek ate, if he did eat.

"Do you eat?"

"_GAH!_ Y-yes?"

We pass by the cafeteria and I do a double take at the menu for the week. Suddenly, Four Cheese Pizza written with yellow chalk on a small green board seems like a grace from God. I tell Tweek to go ahead and every step I take towards the queue feels like I'm walking on sunshine (whoa.) The closer I get to Chef, the louder the trumpets and vuvuzelas I hear in my head sound. Finally face to face with Chef, he nods at me knowingly and David Eisley's motherfucking _Sweet Victory_ plays in the background as he hands me the slice of pizza on this glorious plate. Chef says to me, "Rise, pick up this pizza and walk away, my child."

All this happens in my head, of course, as Tweek explains to me why he'd rather puppies than cats but can't possibly have either because he might die from some canine disease or loneliness and regret when it runs away from him or, worse, dies because he didn't take care of it well.

"Hey, Tweek," I say, "go ahead, I'll just get myself some lunch. Do you have yours?"

He timidly nods and I tell him that I'd be right with him. I enter the cafeteria, eyes glued to the pizza slices being handed out to every student in the line. When it's my turn, Chef asks, "Was it Queen?"

"David Eisley." He gives me the pizza slice and I walk away from the counter. Staring at the slab of grease and fat, I lick my lips and pick it up to get a bite of heaven.

That was right before I feel a tap on my shoulder and a fist colliding with my cheek.

I fall over, plate breaking a few feet away from me and my fucking pizza lying dead on the floor. "Jesus!" I look at the motherfucker who punched me and—_holy shit._

"Clyde?"

He grabs my hoodie and throws me to the nearby table. Angry, I charge towards him and knee him in the balls. He doubles a bit over, wincing, and I kick the side of his face. His head hits the floor, but he soon recovers, punching my stomach. As a reflex, I punch him at the nose and blood spurts out. I back away, feeling somehow uneasy at the sight.

He wipes the blood with the back of his hand and screams at me. I stand, tense, as he slams my face on the side of the table. I could feel my lip opening and I fall to my knees. He grabs my right elbow and I curse in pain.

And before I could even blink, he raises his fist for another blow until Token arrives to pull him away. Clyde's now screaming and struggling to get back to me, and I feel a warm hand on my shoulder. I look up to see my History teacher glaring at Clyde.

"All right, who started it?" She demands.

Stan immediately pipes up. "Clyde did it!"

Everyone's eyes fall on Clyde and he smirks. "Yeah, yeah I started it! I _don't fucking care_! That son of a cuntface deserved it!"

"Enough!" the teacher yells. "To the principal's office, Donovan, _now_!"

Clyde manages to yank himself away from Token and he points a finger at me. "HAVE FUN WITH YOUR NEW BESTFRIEND, YOU INSENSITIVE, STUPID, COCKSUCKING SON OF A BITCH!" He spits blood on my shoes and is taken away from the cafeteria. I stare at the spot where the blood is now staining and sigh.

For the first time, I have never felt so defeated.

**~.::.~**

"Take off your hoodie."

I stare at Nurse Gollum for a few seconds before doing what she had ordered. I lifted up my loose black shirt to show her the side of my stomach. There are no signs of any bruise forming, which is good, I guess. She places bandages on my chin, my forehead and my knuckle which must have gotten wounded by the broken plate. She hands me an icepack to place on the bruise on my chin while she checks my right elbow.

Licking my split lip, I try not to stare at the jiggling fetus at the side of her face. I tighten my grip on my mobile phone and decide to send a message to Tweek.

_got sent 2 the nurses office. Sorry_

I don't expect a reply, and I don't even understand what led me to text him. Perhaps I was seeking some comfort from this pain I feel inside which I would never admit to myself of possessing.

After minutes of staying inside, she tells me I'm free to go. I thank her and leave the office. Outside, I'm surprised to see Token waiting for me.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

I shrug. "Yeah."

He stares at me in disbelief. I sigh. "No, I feel like dousing myself with kerosene and setting myself on fire."

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment. He notices the bandage on my right arm and says, "Where'd you get that?"

"No where. It doesn't really matter now."

Token shakes his head like he's disappointed. I raise my eyebrows and ask him if he's all right.

"Look at you, Craig. Clyde did this." And with just that, I understood him perfectly. We never hurt each other like this. I never punched his nose so hard he bled. That's why I had felt uneasy earlier. I just never thought we would resort to _this.e _

"I didn't even say anything to aggravate him this much," I reason. "Fuck, if I did, I don't know what I said."

Token nods. "Are you skipping the rest of the day?"

I think about it. "No."

His eyes widen only slightly and he brings something out of his bag. "Oh, give this back to blondie." I look at what he's holding and it's a grey sketchpad.

"Where did you get that?"

"He was heading towards the clinic," he explains, pushing the sketchpad to my chest. "He saw me standing here and I noticed him as well. So he freaked and ran, dropping this in the process."

I place the sketchpad between my knees and quickly wear my hoodie so Token wouldn't see that I'm smiling.

* * *

**Further Author's Notes: **Craig likes pizza. Who the fuck doesn't?


	17. Like a Drug

**Blindfold**

**Disclaimers: **Rinse, Lather, Repeat.

**Author's Notes: **You might not hear from me for a long time again, but stay patient! I promise to finish this, so don't worry your pants off. I'm determined to get this done. Thank you for all your kind reviews! Hugs to everyone!

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Like a Drug**

The day after the fight, Mr. Mackey called me to his office and all of a sudden I felt almost new to the trip to the counselor. I haven't been visiting there as often as I had before, and I'm trying to bring my head around the idea that it's good.

It was routine, I remember. He'd say, "Mmkay, how are you, Craig?" And I would answer a monotonous "Fine" with a flip of the middle finger.

But that time, it was different. He asked me the standard question, and I replaced my automatic answer with a "My face hurts."

"I talked to Clyde yesterday, mmkay. He told me why he did it," he said.

I remained quiet. He didn't want to push the matter further, and so he asked, "So, how are you with Tweek?"

I didn't want to say a lot, so I said, "Fine."

"Mmkay, just fine?"

For a while, we only stared at each other. I looked at the band aid on my knuckle and told him, "We're okay."

He began to tell me how big the improvement is, and honestly, he's just flattering himself. Maybe that's why his head is so big.

As I stare at the net above me, I recall the scene over and over again in my head. When the Lunch bell rang a while ago, I proceeded to the basketball court just to see if it was merely a lucky shot last Friday. I take off my jacket and toss it aside, gripping the orange ball tight.

I then start to think about Tweek. Just random moments that happened this morning, and his odd mannerisms I haven't really noticed until my little realization just a few days ago. I remember the sketchpad he dropped yesterday and how tempted I was to peek inside, but a voice inside my head told me not to.

So I gave it back and tried not to ask any questions about it. Besides, I was too wrapped around the idea of him wanting to see me at the Nurse's office to think of anything else.

Absentmindedly, I throw the ball and it shoots perfectly through the net. A few more tries, and I end up with the same result. I unconsciously grin, satisfied with the answer. It actually feels good being able to shoot now. My problem now is to not become too distracted during a game, or else it'll just defeat the whole purpose.

Leaving the court in quite a good mood, I pass by the cafeteria and get two slices of pizza to compensate for the one I dropped yesterday before heading towards the gym. Tweek's already there at the 2nd floor sketching with a tuna pie dangling his mouth. I take a seat beside him, tempted to poke the pie to annoy him. But I decide to focus on my lunch instead.

Taking a bite of the cheesy goodness feels like a cosmic orgasm, and if I had ovaries, I'd say I dropped them and call the FBI.

"What kind of sketches do you have there?" I ask Tweek, eyes fixated at the string of cheese practically begging me to eat it.

"_Ah!_ Nothing," he says, shaking a bit as he draws. I take a peak and my eyes widen at the sight of him drawing the old swing where I had fallen from and cut my elbow. "Awesome," I find myself muttering, and I could smell the caffeine, tuna and peppermint scent on him as I inhale. His breathing starts to become uneven, but he continues sketching. When I place my cheek on his shoulder to watch, he breaks his pencil and screams, "_Oh God—THE PRESSURE!_"

I throw my head back and say, "S-sorry. Do you want my pencil?"

He shakes his head furiously. "I have an e-extra one."

He fishes a pencil from his bag and I stare at the sketchpad placed on his lap. "Are you gonna show me what else you have there?"

His wide eyes stare back at me in hesitation and he twitches. "I-I don't know."

I grin. "Why, have some secrets there I shouldn't know? Sketches of people who'd kill you if they saw what you drew of them?"

He almost breaks his extra pencil before I reach out and take it away from him. "Calm down, Twister, I was just kidding."

He calms down a bit and touches his sketchpad. "O-okay."

With a smile of triumph, I look through the book. Page after page, I become appalled at how Tweek could make ordinary, boring and normally overlooked things so interesting and, dare I say, beautiful.

I pause at one page that contains a watercolor sketch of the track oval here on the second floor. I compare the sketch to real life and it's amazing to see how stunning he could make it.

As I flip the pages further, I notice him becoming tenser. It is when I stop at a page that he altogether stops breathing and squeaks. It's a sketch of someone riding a bicycle with the wind blowing through his black hair and the scene looks so familiar. "Is this supposed to be me?" I ask, amused grin on my face. He nods his head sheepishly, as if embarrassed at the fact. I touch it and admire how he had captured it so perfectly despite him not actually being there. "It's amazing," I tell him, smiling wider at the pink that appears on his cheeks.

At least, that's how I had imagined it would happen, but I arrive at the last page of the book before finding any drawing of me that I strangely had hoped to spot. "Cool," I merely say, trying to ignore the feeling of disappointment welling up inside.

He takes it back and I ask, "No portraits, though? Or whatever you call that." He shoots me a look and replies, "I-I don't really like drawing people."

"Why not?"

He shrugs, which sort of looks like a super twitch from the angle I'm sitting at. "The art project was a nice challenge, though—_erg!_"

My eyes widen a bit, catching his drift. "That was your first time?"

He nods and I almost gag. I ask him if he was kidding, but he reacts like I insinuated that it was a bad thing that will place him in the Top 10 most wanted criminals of America, or something.

"What you did was totally kickass, man," I tell him amidst his hyperventilation. "You're one awesome artist."

He lets out a small smile and thanks me, and I realize the part about the pink appearing on his cheeks in my fucked up fantasy managed to come true, so I'm not as disappointed anymore.

10 minutes left for Lunch period and we decide to head back to the main building.

On our way to class, I decide to bring up the subject again. "So," I start, "why _don't_ you want to draw people?"

"I just don't." He says it firmly as though he wants it to end there and then. But persistent Craig is persistent, and that tone of voice only piqued my curiosity. I urge him on, even nudging his side for him to explain why. And I can tell by the jerks of his body and his lip biting that it tickles him, and it's actually kind of adorable.

Before, I would have punched myself unconsciously for describing someone that way, but now that I've proven myself a fag—yes, I've come around to accept that horrible fact albeit quite bitterly—I don't see the point in denying it to myself. And, honestly, I've done a lot of tickling before, and Tweek's reactions are just, well, cute. I've tickled Clyde quite a few times to irritate him. He'd screw his eyes shut, bite back a laugh which would make him sound like a pig giving birth, twist his body like a worm and try to push me away. Not cute. Not even _close_ to cute. I've tickled Ruby countless of times, too. She'd scream and punch me in the face. That's kind of cute.

Tweek isn't as contorted nor as violent, and it amuses me. I stop after a few minutes in fear of actually breaking him and ask again.

He swiftly turns towards me. "_GAH!_ I just don't see the point, okay? Why do you care anyway?"

I shrug. I don't really know. I just do. Care, I mean.

"Why don't you just try?"

"I already did!"

"That was a project. You _had_ to do it."

He stays silent and I could tell by his pink face he wants to punch me. At least, I think so. Normally, for me, that kind of face is equivalent to my don't-fucking-touch-my-fucking-brownie-bitch face.

I decide to drop it. Until I catch him in Geometry class doodling Shakespeare's face all over his graphing papers, and I smile inwardly at the sight of it.

**~.::.~**

I dream I'm running down a spiral staircase in this white space surrounding me. I trip and fall upon a soft, sticky mass and I realize I'm lying on top of a cheese pizza. The ground shakes and I try to break free, but to no avail. Someone emerges from the distance and it's an anorexic Lion King running towards me on two legs and brandishing a tall large number 2 pencil. I see a few seconds later that it's Tweek and he breaks me free from my cheesy captivity. The ground shakes once more, and Tweek hurriedly draws a door in the white space we are in. He grabs my hand and we run away from the whiteness to the blackness and there's not a single thing I could see. I hold Tweek's hand tighter and it sends electricity through my veins. A voice in my head says, "Don't look down," and so I do. Suddenly, we find ourselves falling into the nothingness. I could see Tweek's face, now, and he's scared. I cup his face with my hands and I know the words that escape from my mouth are "I like you," but the words I hear with my ears are "Shakespeare will save us." And from beneath, Shakespeare emerges and catches us before flying off into the night sky. We're both lying on top of his bald head and the stars start to twinkle above us. Tweek looks at me and says, "Good pilgrim, our parents would never allow it!" I hold his hand and say, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." I lean forward with intent to kiss him, but I tickle him instead, and it swells my heart to hear his squeaks like a small helpless mouse trapped in a room full of cats. Tweek lifts his hand, and—trust me—I know a high five when I see one coming, but he balls it into a fist and punches me right on the nose.

I awake bathing in sweat at 4:17 in the morning.

Kicking the sheets off, I head towards the bathroom and check my reflection in the mirror. All right, my nose is still in one piece. I turn the radio on as I wash my face, but slow love songs start to break the silence and I rub my eyes in frustration. It's starting to get on my nerves how the words are affecting me in some way, now. And this stupid crush is eating me up inside that I can't even sleep properly.

I grab a random CD and pop it in the player, and I almost gag on my toothbrush when Spanish lyrics pervade the air, but I decide to shrug it off. Must have been one of Clyde's that he forgot to get back. For the most part, it's because I'm thinking too much about Tweek that there isn't enough space in my mind for anything else. If I could, I would bang my head for all eternity against my locker, or unconsciously punch myself, or belt out a random lyric from a song just to keep him out of it like I used to. But that sickening feeling of aggravation that accompanies the thoughts is replaced with the sickening feeling I don't really know.

And what sucks is that I'm actually _embracing_ these thoughts and making them worse by making myself like Tweek even more. I could just stop talking to him. I could avoid him. But even I'm smart enough to know those methods never work. I've learned quite a lot from the soap operas and chick flicks Ruby and Token (yes, Token) have been watching. So I let it happen. I let this attraction to Tweek grow centimeter by centimeter as the days pass.

And all I want to say is God, Craig, get a fucking grip.

I finish my morning preparations and step out of the shower tousling my hair as though I'm trying to cleanse myself of these douchy thoughts and feelings.

I decide to have an early morning bike ride around South Park before school starts and I realize that I have at most 3 hours to spare. Tying the laces of my Nike shoes, I step out into the cold and grab my bike. It's during these times when South Park becomes bearable because of its silence and calming atmosphere. The bars have closed about an hour or 2 ago, the muggers and thieves decide it's too dangerous to do anything now that the day is almost starting, and everyone else is still snuggled up in their beds.

Spotting a McDonald's, my stomach grumbles in need of breakfast. I stop my bike in front of it and feel the inside of my pockets for money. Heading inside, I blink my eyes a few times to adjust to the sudden brightness of my surroundings. The girl at the cashier greets me and I stare at the menu.

I order a Mac Wrap, fries, a Coke and some cookies to eat during Recess when I get hungry again. I put down 5 dollars and get my change before leaving.

It's a quarter past 5 and I know the perfect place to stay at this time of day. Sometimes, when insomnia kicks in, I go to that place atop a hill and watch the sunrise. It's a little bit off town and leads towards the forest. It amazes me how the town would be flooded with bright orange, and you could hear the roosters cackling, the paperboy making his routes, and early morning risers heading out to claim their newspapers or to jog or do their routine.

It's hard to bike uphill, so I walk with my bike up to the spot. Taking my place on the ground, I start eating my sandwich wrap. I'd have to change my pants when I get back home later because I could feel the wetness of the ground seeping through the fabric. I raise my legs and support my arms against my knees.

I spot the red splotch at the corner of my shoes and I sigh, recalling Clyde's rampage in the cafeteria. And it brings me to another dilemma: what would they think if they find out about me? I could only imagine.

Kenny would laugh and laugh and scream out to the world "Craig Tucker's gay!" and he'd annoy me with sex jokes and wanting to "get it on in the shower room."

Kyle would be too appalled to say anything good or bad about it. He'd unceasingly question me with "Are you serious? Are you _really_ serious?" and make a big deal out of it like I just ate the world's largest popcorn ball.

Stan would probably call me a jerk but would leave me alone to wallow in my jerkiness.

Cartman, without a shade of a doubt, would laugh, run around the campus proclaiming my gayness for the Spaz and call me names like fag, pussy, douchebag and whatnot. This will end in bloodshed and threats of removing his teeth with a wrench.

Token would probably start with "Oh, so _that's _why you've been acting so weird lately." He'd force me to explain how and why as if that would matter and would tell me his opinions. But he'd still be my best buddy.

Clyde, well, I don't know how he'll react. He'd probably punch me and give this red splotch on my shoes some company.

I can't tell them. Not when I'm still unsure.

Or am I?

My eyes widen at the sudden blueness of the snow and I check my watch. Almost time for the sunrise. I sip my Coke and wait. Watching the sunrise is one of the things-you-must-do-before-you-die mainly because it takes an amount of effort to catch one and to be at the perfect spot, and because it's certainly much more breathtaking than sunsets. It's like watching the world wake up.

And as the sun slowly emerges from the horizon and colors the town with orange and yellow, the only thing racing in my mind is, "I wish Tweek was here."

I start to imagine Tweek sitting here beside me sipping his black coffee in his thermos. And, suddenly, the sunrise seems more amazing. My hand finds his and I hold it tight, smiling at the softness and warmth of it.

My hand twitches, but it grabs nothing but snow. I groan and rub my face against my cold, wet palms. I could feel them warming up from the heat on my face and I sigh.

"I really, really like Tweek," I say audibly. And I shiver as the words roll out of my tongue, but a grin automatically appears on my face. My hands slide down my cheeks and I stare at the still rising sun. Heaving a sigh, I lie on my back and close my eyes, letting sleep take over me.

**~.::.~**

I awake at a quarter to 8 and bike back to my house to change jackets and grab my bag before taking off again to school.

Along the way, I feel my phone buzz and I skid to a stop to check it. It's a message from Token that reads, "_Craig._"

Years of being friends with Token got us both to have this special understanding and connection with each other. With Clyde isn't any different. It's the same for every other pair of bros out there. It's that mental connection that even without the other saying it directly, or sometimes not even saying anything at all, you perfectly understand what they mean. Oftentimes, it's due to the repetitive mannerisms, and at other times, it's because you can simply tell. There were times when Clyde would start scratching the area of his mole near his right ear whenever Token and I start planning some game or movie night. It always meant that he wouldn't be able to make it to those dates because he's in deep shit with his parents. He did it a few times when we were kids and he'd always say the same things. As we grew older, he needn't have to say his excuse anymore. When Token and I would spot him scratching his mole, we'd merely nod and he'd smile, embarrassed at the situation.

Token also has his quirks that needn't require explanation. Just by reading his simple text, I know exactly what he's trying to say. So I quickly pocket my phone and pedal to school faster to see what kind of trouble he's in.

Once I arrive, I lock my bike and head towards Token's locker. From a distance, I spot him staring intensely at his locker with steam almost visibly coming out from all his holes. Passersby would glance at his locker and would raise a curious brow. When the sight comes to full view, my eyes widen and I stop a few feet away from the Earth's core that is Token Black. Whenever I receive a text that says "_Craig,_" I immediately know something or someone is about to make Token snap which, I assure you, is not a pretty sight to see. Even Golum from _Lord of the Rings_ humping your toilet hissing "My precious" would be a better thing to witness.

I stare at Token and you could almost see the red hues amidst his, well, blackness, and it's like you're expecting hot lava to erupt from his face. Little by little I could see his head blowing up and his lips tightening into a fine thin line. I catch my breath and his head dramatically explodes, blood splattering all around us, decorating the white paint that is now coated onto his locker door.

"Secret Santa?" I ask him.

"Secret son of a bitch." He thrusts onto my hands a small bottle that, upon reading it, is whitening cream. I could laugh at the pathetic prank, but the gravity of its stupidity is completely outweighed by the gravity of the insult. Perhaps it's my imagination, but I could sense Token slowly blowing up and threatening to explode. I reach into my bag and bring out my McDonald's cookies to hand to Token. He doesn't say a word and keeps his gaze at his locker attempting to melt it, or maybe melt whoever vandalized it. He takes in a deep breath and closes his eyes as he exhales. He gets the cookies and shoves them down his mouth.

I feel a wave of relief. "So," I start, "how are you going to explain this to the principal?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "I'll have it fixed before she even finds out." I watch him dial a number on his mobile and place it against his ear. "Hello, dad?"

I touch the locker door and let out a whistle. The white paint was spray-painted, and quite an impressive feat to pull off in such a short time without getting caught sooner or later.

From a distance, I spot Kyle walking side by side with Clyde heading towards our direction. My eyes fall upon Clyde's bruise under his eye and sigh. I wave at them, but keep my eyes on Kyle. He waves back, and Clyde looks at Token's locker, eyes widening at the sight. "Whoa, what happened here?"

"Kris kringle," I answer, tossing the whitening cream to him. "Quite a pathetic one at that."

Kyle stares at it thoughtfully. "I'd say minimalist." I raise my eyebrow at him. "Subdued racism. But, yeah dude, that sucks."

He looks at Token. "What's he doing?"

I shrug in time with Token clicking his phone. "I just asked my dad to send some of his workers here to install a brand new locker door before class starts."

"Looks like your Secret Asshat needs to kill all your little minions first before ruining your Christmas," I kid.

"Well, good luck to whoever that racist asshole is," Token says. "He'd have to go through all 700 of them."

Our conversation is interrupted by a loud elongated cry of "_Oh_!" Token, Kyle and I look at Clyde whose eyes are still glued to Token's white locker.

"It's _racist_ because it's—and you're—_oh!_ I get it!" Clyde laughs hard for a few seconds before pulling himself together and saying, "Man, that _is_ weak" deadpan.

"Congratulations, Clyde, you win a gold medal," Token says with sarcasm.

"Hey, give me a break," Clyde tells him. "I've been doing math all night."

Kyle scoffs. "_You? _Doing _math_ all night? Tell me '_math_' is a new term of endearment of yours to some girl you picked up at _Raisins_."

I get lost in the conversation after that. At the corner of my eye I see a familiar figure with wild, blond hair fidgeting about as he ties his shoelaces. I bite the inside of my lip to avoid sighing like some schoolgirl in a Disney movie.

"I can't believe this."

I close my eyes instantly and groan. I turn to Clyde with a half-annoyed "What?" but am surprised to see them staring off at a distance.

"All these years and he's still barking up that tree?" Kyle muses.

"A much scathed tree," Token comments. "Just how many dogs have clawed and scratched that?"

Clyde puts his two cents in. "Whatever Stan did to deserve her attention, it must have been golden."

I stare at Wendy fixing Stan's hair and giggling at whatever Stan was telling her. His hands are placed firmly on her waist and, now and then, Wendy would slide her knee up Stan's inner legs.

"She's been clothing herself too," I say, "that's pretty weird."

"Whatever," Kyle shrugs, "she's only playing with him. Even a hobbit from Ireland with no senses would find that obvious."

"Do I detect jealousy?" Clyde laughs. "Funny, I've always known you've been playing for _that_ team."

"Am not, you dickwad!" Kyle punches his arm. "I'm gonna pry some answers from him later to get to the bottom of this."

"Yup," I nod, "_definitely _for the other team."

Token, Clyde and I snicker at Kyle's annoyed expression. "Jerks!" he screams. "Bros always look out for each other so the other won't get hurt. You guys know that."

There is a terse pause between the three of us and Kyle doesn't notice it. He glances at his watch and says, "Oh, I'm gonna be late. See you guys!"

We watch him run off and Token looks at his watch as well. "Dad's workers will be here any minute. I'll go wait for them at the front door." Without acknowledging how he's leaving me with the guy who gave me this bruise on my chin, he walks away towards where Tweek is still crouched on the floor and tying his laces. With a slight shake of the head, I walk to him, knowing Clyde won't say a word to me even if I stayed on the spot.

I kneel beside him and say, "Didn't preschool teach you how to chase bunnies to their burrow?" as I took the laces from his hands.

His eyes flared with horror. "Chasing bunnies? What did they ever do to—_OH GOD!_ Now, they must be planning revenge! Jesus, Craig! Why the hell did preschool teach you to torture bunnies?"

"Dumbass." I roll my eyes. "It's a song for tying shoelaces. Other foot."

He shifts his position to let me tie his other shoe. "You're tenser and louder than usual. What, did gnomes spike your coffee?"

He buries his face on the palms of his hands. "I _didn't_ have coffee!"

I raise my eyebrow. "You what?"

"When I looked at our cupboard, the coffee packs were gone! Mom said they transferred it to Harbucks because shipping got delayed and they needed them right away and I didn't know where to get coffee and I needed one soon or else so I couldn't get out of the house and _buy_ a cup because—_OH GOD!—_I can't get out of the house without my coffee fix! And then I saw a sachet of instant coffee and I didn't have any other choice left, so I drank instant and—_JESUS! _What maggots would have thrived in there? A _sachet_ of coffee, Craig! That's—that's _blasphemy!_"

I finished tying his shoes in the middle of his rant and get up. "Stop freaking out, dude. I'll get you coffee later. Just relax." I extend a hand towards him and he pulls it, pushing himself off the ground and on his feet.

I smile at him and he blinks at it, but I am in no right state of mind to stop acting so lovesick. What breaks me from my trance is a slap upside the head. I growl and rub it furiously. I look up and see Clyde walking away.

"What is up his ass?" I groan.

Tweek's staring at him with a funny look on his face. I cock my head to the side and try to read his expression like he suspects something.

"Tweek?" I call.

He gasps and looks at me. "Yeah?"

I shrug it off and put a hand on his back. "Come on, we're going to be late."

**~.::.~**

"So," Stan says as he drops himself on the bench beside me, "how's this mystery crush going?"

"Wait," Token leans forward to look at Stan. "Craig likes someone?" I stare pointedly at the accusing finger being held at my direction.

"I think so." Stan lifts his leg to tie his laces. "He's been asking me weird questions lately."

"Me too," Token nods.

"Craig's here, you know," I say, glaring at the both of them.

Everyone in the class is already out in the field and passing the soccer ball to each other while waiting for Chef. Tweek is still in the changing room having been paranoid to strip in a room with a bunch of other guys. "They might mistake me for a stick for pole vaulting!" He had screeched. "They might break me!" Despite the coffee we had gotten for him during recess, he still hasn't toned down.

Stan stands up and looks out into the field. "Are you going to tell us who she is?"

"No offense, Marsh," I tell him, "but your girlfriend happens to be the queen bitch of this school. You think a little piece of information about me will stay between us in, at the very least, 10 minutes with her sucking your dick?"

He sneers at me. "Hey, if you don't want it out, you can trust me not to tell."

"That's exactly what you said when I told you my grandma gave me 100 bucks for my birthday and look where that had gotten me in less than 24 hours."

"How would I know we'd get deported to Peru?"

"Exactly, now get your ass out of here. And that's me asking _very_ nicely."

With a half-second glower, Stan runs to the field and leaves me be. Token looks at me with an amused grin. "Harsh."

"Like I would want to tell him anything," I roll my eyes and pick a stray thread on my PE shorts. Token shifts beside me and says, "You're going to tell me, right? Whoever this mystery girl you're infatuated with is?"

I smile half-heartedly at him. I don't want to tell him. I don't want to tell anyone. I don't even want to tell it to a helpless squirrel. But having said it out loud to myself this morning made me feel so overjoyed that I feel that saying it to someone else will amplify that emotion. And I trust Token the most, and I'm confident he won't judge me like Clyde would.

"Maybe," I say quietly. "Just not now."

He raises his eyebrows. "Must be some chick for you to be reduced to this."

I give him a look of confusion. "Reduced to what?"

"An alpha dog brought to a pound and hopelessly in love with a poodle outside his cage. Or maybe that's just me." He chuckles.

"Definitely just you," I say. I see Tweek come out through the door gripping a bottle of sunblock lotion and bite back a smile. I almost miss the soft hum from beside me.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and I look at Token. He blinks at me slowly and says, "Well, I hope you'll come around and tell me soon, Craig."

I watch him get up and make his way to join Stan and the others. I sigh deeply before making my way towards Tweek. "Sun's not out," I tell him, eying the lotion on his hands. He only twitches in reply.

Behind us, Chef pats our back and shoves us lightly to the field. "Come on, warm up children!" The class converges and starts jogging around the field, Tweek and I staying behind them. I glance over to Tweek and say, "Keeping your speed and agility discreet?"

"I'm not a showoff—_ah!_"

I skid to a stop and find Tweek rubbing his head and his shoes untied. "Again?" I point out breathless. "Make an x, find a bunny—"

"_GAH!_ Enough with the bunnies, Jesus, they can hear you!" He's flailing his arms like a duck, and it almost makes me want to throw a breadcrumb towards him. I manage to suppress a smile, and then I remember what Token had told me. It's going to be weird, confessing to him and it feels like I'm a murderer about to confess to a priest. And it's fine that way because you can always count on a priest not to say anything and, most of all, not to judge you.

Tweek's on his knees, now, and telling me "Just—just go ahead! _Erg!_"

I raise my eyebrows and do as told, catching up with the rest. I jog my way beside Token and pull his arm. "Ow—Craig, what are you—"

"Cheesesticks after school on Friday," I tell him. "You free?"

"Asking me out on a date?" He laughs.

"Not my type. Don't tell anyone, okay?"

"That I'm not your type?"

I shove his head down, making him almost trip and fall. "Just kidding, you asshat!" When he regains his composure, he eyes Tweek bent over by the sidelines. "What's up with him? Is he going to puke all over the track?"

"Just tying his shoes," I answer. Token looks at me with eyes oddly glistening. "Hey," he says with a large grin, "remember that song back in preschool?"

I laugh. "Like how I remember my own birthday."

He matches my laugh and shakes his head. "Can't wait for Friday!"

I lick my lips and look up at the sky. "Yeah."

**~.::.~**

There are times when I can't stand Tweek, and no, not counting the years before I started becoming more comfortable around him. And no, not also counting the times he'd go ballistic and give me his insane theories and monologues because I've found that I've gotten accustomed to those fits as well. I'm not counting the times when he's so silent as well and, yes, those moments drive me more insane than when he's screaming his head off.

It's when the teacher is out and has left us with work to turn in at the end of the period on his desk to be claimed by another faculty member. It's when it's Math time when everyone would rather chew their own waste than to answer something impossible to finish within an hour even if you start guessing from the very beginning. It's those times when I can't stand Tweek.

Because Tweek always, _always_ finishes the work before time ends.

And it's always been that way. We've been in the same Math classes even before I was sentenced to be attached to his hip, and whenever there were seatworks, a little over 30 minutes to time he'd be scrambling on his feet to place his paper on the desk and fleeing off to God knows where. I would purposely trip him just to spite him, and I admit I've stolen his paper and changed his answers because he pissed off the class so much during those times.

That was then, but he hasn't changed. A few moments ago, he'd already run to the teacher's table to deposit his work and fled to God knows where. I had wanted to throw a pen to his head for old time's sake then.

"Gross, Stan!" Cartman yells from the side. "Stop being a pussy and enclosing Wendy's name in hearts!"

"Shut up, fatass!" Stan stammers, blushing. "I was not! Kyle, tell him to get off my back!"

Beside me, Kyle sighs. "Stan, as much as I'd like to believe you're solving and graphing a trigonometric equation, you _are_ being a lovesick fag."

Stan gapes at him. "Screw you!"

"Screw Wendy is more like it, you desperate little dick," Cartman laughs. "Now let me copy off your work! Oh wait, I'm sorry; are all your answers 143?"

"Get off my case, Cartman!" Stan slaps him away. "Go bug Craig!"

"I was expecting you assholes to drag me into your annoying and loud display," I tell them with a sarcastic tone, eyes not lifting up from my paper. "Why I even got stuck in a class with you guys I'll wonder forever."

"Craig, give me your paper!" He demands.

"I already gave up halfway. It's no use going on." I've been writing random things on my paper ever since I stopped attempting to finish it and decided to just stare into space to think about whatever will come to mind. I look down at my paper and immediately find a strange set of numbers amidst obscured sketches of pizza, guinea pigs and middle fingers. _20, 23, 5, 5, 11._

I cough and turn the paper over. "Just shove off, you tub of lard."

He contorts his face in anger. "Fuck you guys! Stan, I bet you 200 bucks Wendy'll run off with a random dude on the street and fuck each other's brains out faster than you can say David Hasselhoff!"

"E-Eric," Butters pipes in from behind, "I think you should leave Stan alone."

"Butters, you're gay. Therefore, you have no say in these heterosexual affairs."

"Stop it, Cartman." I honestly have no idea why that came out of my mouth. But I stand my ground when Cartman looks at me with a disgusting smirk on his face. "What, you have a soft spot for the fairy now too?"

I rise from my chair menacingly. "I hope you know that I could turn you into Rudolph the Black-nosed Fatass in a matter of seconds if you don't shut up."

"Yeah," Kyle says, "just shut your trap, Cartman. It's hard to concentrate with you yapping."

"Whatever," Cartman huffs. "You guys are douchebags, and Butters will die a virgin."

I roll my eyes. "You're one to talk."

"_You're_ one to talk," Stan remarks, glancing at me.

"Same goes to you," I say, earning an incredulous look from him. "Dude, I've already had sex."

"Saying you already had sex with Wendy is like telling the world you breathe oxygen. Everyone has, thus making that argument null and void."

"She hasn't had sex with _you_ yet."

"She wants to and has been wanting to ever since she started selling her tits to everyone, and if you ask her now, she'd wholeheartedly admit she'd rather make out with me than go to bed with you." It's a disgusting thought, but nonetheless true, and Stan's face is making the whole scene priceless. "And you, being so head over heels with her, will die alone in your room with posters of her taped to your ceiling."

Everyone in the room laughs, and Stan's fuming. He opens his mouth to give a retort, but the bell rings before he could. I smirk and turn my paper in before leaving the room.

I'll leave that as a Kris Kringle strike.

**~.::.~**

Time flies, and it's already Friday afternoon. Token is seated across me with a curious look upon his face. He licks his lips and crosses his arms without breaking the glare he's giving me.

I match his expression and say, "What?"

He sighs deeply. "There is a blond Smurf beside me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Craig."

"Token, just pretend—"

"_Craig._"

"I don't see a Smurf!"

Token looks beside him with an annoyed look and I roll my eyes. "Butters, I'm talking about you," Token says.

"Oh." He looks down at his blue clothes.

"Why is Butters here?" Token questions.

"Let's say he serves as a support system," I explain. "I thought it might make me feel uncomfortable with just you right in front of me while I say what's on my mind the past few weeks. Plus, he might give helpful input."

Token raises his eyebrow.

"He's as innocent as a baby penguin. It's going to help." I wave my hand dismissively and cross my arms.

Token only nods. "So, get on with it then. Who's this mystery crush you've been waiting 'til today to tell me and dragging Butters along to hear?"

I gulp. I had no idea it was going to be this hard to break the news to Token. I've been convincing myself that he'll hear me out and not judge me, but now that I'm here on the spot and the receiving end of his expecting gaze, I find myself wanting the table to just devour me right here right now.

"I think…" I start. "I'm kind of…"

Token leans forward to urge me on.

"Me and…" I groan. "God, why is this so hard?"

"It's all right, Craig," Butters says. "Take your time."

"Butters, just shut up for a moment." Token looks at him pointedly. He apologizes and rubs his knuckles together before the both of them stare at me once again. Oh, table, I know how hungry you are. Please eat me. Just swallow me whole and bring me to the center of the Earth. Can the universe just like me for one second and do me this favor?

I close my eyes tight. "Tweek. It's Tweek."

In my head, a thousand little bunnies burst out of my body and hop about the diner leaving me bleeding to death and with a gaping hole in my stomach. In the saner part of my mind, I was convinced the scene will play with Token saying, "You're gay?" and he'll pat my hands because he understands.

All the while, I'm trying to block out whatever is screaming in my head that Token is going to jump on me and try to punch the sparkles out of my heart because Craig—_Craig_—can't be gay.

But what happens next is unexpected, and it almost sounds like a gunshot near my ears.

"I knew it."

My eyes widen and I gape at him. He stares back with a half-amused expression as opposed to Butters' wild one.

"Don't look at me like that, Craig," Token laughs. "I'm your best friend. I would've known even if you would refuse tell me."

I stare at him and bring my hands to my face. "You know what's even more humiliating?" I tell him.

"What?"

"I bet Clyde knows. Even before I figured it out myself."

He shrugs. "Yeah, he has been complaining; trying to make it obvious to everyone. But only he and I would know it, really."

I smile sheepishly at him before glancing at Butters. "Butters, are you okay?"

"Y-you're…" he stammers. "Wow, geez, Craig, I never would have guessed. O-of course, I'm not saying that I don't approve of you being this way. As Lady Gaga says, '_I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way!_'"

Token and I stare at him. "Sure," I say slowly before heaving a sigh. "But the fact that I am doesn't bother me at all. It's…" I gulp. It's as though the word feels like venom in my throat, and if I say it out loud, it would kill me. "…Tweek. _Tweek_ of all people."

"Well, you have been spending an awful lot of time with him."

"Yeah, and that sort of tells me you're dealing with this so called 'crush' all right." Token points out. "You're not frustrated like I thought you would be. Unless this has been going on for a while and you've already managed to destroy your bedroom in your sexual confusion."

I laugh in spite of myself and shake my head. "I am. I'm so, so frustrated. Tweek is a fucking douche."

Token and Butters blink.

"Is that…" Butters says carefully, "good?"

Token shushes him.

"He's—He's that feeling you get when…" I scratch my head. "…when you get a failing mark in your English exam. He's that feeling you get when you know you had gained 20 pounds eating that Humongo-Burger at Steak Park down the street. He's that feeling you get when your shoes keep getting untied no matter how many times you tie them. He's that ridiculous song that pops in your mind when you wake up at 7 AM on a Friday morning."

Butters opens his mouth to continue, but Token's glare stops him.

"I don't get it," Token says, looking at me. "If you're saying you like Tweek because he's annoying—"

"Your order, sir," a waiter says to me as he places a Supreme Pizza on our table. He gestured to Token and Butters. "Would you like anything?"

"Later." Token swats him away in annoyance. Butters looks at him and says, "I'll have a Chocolate Milkshake."

The waiter nods and walks away. I start eating the pizza and expect another immaculate hymn to send me to euphoria, but I remain strangely intact with the world.

"He's that _horrible_ feeling," I continue. "That horrible feeling like when you get your ass ready for church only to find out that your parents left you and expect you to walk all the way there on foot. It makes you want to smash a table in half, or scream expletives to the sky, or break someone's neck. It boils inside you, and your guts twist and turn and you think you're going to puke all over the street."

I sigh while stretching the cheese dangling from where I bit. "And you try so hard to get it out of your system. You want to forget about it, but you can't. And it consequently gets stuck in your mind no matter how much you don't want it to." I put down the pizza like it doesn't even matter anymore. "Tweek is that feeling. That feeling you can't shake out and it drives you insane. That moment you can't get your mind off of until it grows on you until you learn to accept it and move on."

I lean back. "Tweek is… Tweek is like drugs, and I'm fucking addicted to it. It's driving me nuts." In annoyance, I shove the pizza up my mouth.

Token's staring at me cross-eyed. "All right, who were you reading before we came here? Allan Poe? Hemmingway?"

Butters giggles. "That felt like an Ashton Kutcher movie scene."

"That being said," Token says, "Craig—Jesus, you've got it bad."

"Wait, so you're all right with it, right?" I raise my eyebrows. "Me being gay for Tweek?"

He looks down. "It _is_ weird."

I smile. "Clyde can't even look at me in the eye."

"Well, if-if I'm allowed to say so," Butters pipes in, "I think it's great that Craig is finally letting someone in! You know, since he's been beating everyone up for a good chunk of his life."

I drum my fingers on the table. Token raises an eyebrow at Butters. "Yeah, that may be true, but I think you're being a total jackass as well."

"Oh?" I narrow my eyes. "I didn't know that. Please tell me more."

He leans closer. "Just how do you think whatever this is—" he gestures wildly, "—is going to turn out? He's lived his life cowering under your terror. Just imagine how fucked up he'll be when, all of a sudden, his _bully_ looks at him like he's the light of the world?"

"I'm not going to tell him." I wince at my own words and pick up another pizza. Despite Butters' noisy slurping of his milkshake which had been set down moments ago without my noticing, the awkward silence nerves me. "And he's not going to find out first." That was that.

"Are you going to wait until he realizes the same thing?" Butters asks. "Like in most romance movies? This really feels like we're in one."

Token smirks. "Or, like in most _sad_ movies, wait until you fall out?"

I shrug and eat my pizza. All was said, and I trust they wouldn't tell. I trust that they'll forget about it and leave me alone.

I'm going to wait. I'll leave it at that. I'm going to wait. And whatever will happen in the whole course of things will happen.

There's just one last thing left say.

"I like Tweek."

And just as I had imagined it would be, having to say it again and to a pair of ears not my own feels like fireworks blowing up inside my chest, and I didn't have to hide the goofy smile possibly plastered on my face right now. Butters looks at me curiously, then smiles.

"You have cheese stuck between your teeth."

* * *

**Further author's Notes: **I hope you guys got the numbers part when Craig and Stan's posse were in math. Don't dwell on it too much. It's not that hard to figure out. :D And Craig's dreams are featured once again! Yay! Read and Review please! :)


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